


codetta

by vindicatedtruth (behindtintedglass)



Category: American Idol RPF
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-02-18
Updated: 2017-02-18
Packaged: 2018-05-21 10:42:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 29
Words: 21,902
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6048514
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/behindtintedglass/pseuds/vindicatedtruth
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Vignettes of their what ifs.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. call me when you're sober

Cook lands on the bed with a grunt, and Archie winces. “You really should take off your shoes first,” Archie chides him gently as he carefully removes Cook’s arm from his shoulder. 

“… Can’t,” Cook says, his voice muffled with his face mashed against the pillow.

Archie sighs. He kneels down and works on Cook’s laces. “How many have you had to drink tonight?”

Cook lifts his head to grin hazily at him. “You know what… I don’t actually remember.”

Archie shakes his head fondly. “Good to know you had a great time then.” He removes Cook’s shoes and sets them neatly by the foot of the bed. He straightens, and blinks when he sees Cook watching him with half-lidded eyes.

“Wish you had been there,” Cook murmurs, and Archie stamps down on the sudden curl of his gut at that low, throaty voice.

He shakes his head. “I only would’ve been in the way of your fun,” he says quietly as he moves to pull the blanket over Cook.

The other man catches his wrist before he can pull back. “No,” Cook murmurs huskily, “you wouldn’t have.”

He yanks Archie down and kisses him.

Wide-eyed with shock, Archie is frozen for a moment at the sensation of Cook’s slick, open mouth moving against his. He tastes of beer and smoke and cinnamon gum and something else that’s tangy and spicy; shuddering, Archie lets himself melt against the other man weakly for several seconds before he braces his hands and knees on the bed and forces himself to pull away; Cook had Archie’s lower lip caught between his teeth and he releases Archie’s mouth with a loud, wet pop.

Heart hammering against his chest, Archie wipes at his mouth with the back of his hand. “You’re drunk, Cook,” he states matter-of-factly as he moves away from the bed, feeling like his legs have suddenly turned into jelly. “Just… just go sleep it off, okay? I’ll… I’ll be right next door if you need me.”

Shakily, Archie opens the bedroom door. He is about to walk out when he hears Cook mumble under his breath.

“I love you, man.” Cook’s eyes are falling close. “I really, really do.”

Pausing, Archie turns to look at him. A sliver of light from the hallway spills upon Cook’s silhouette on the bed. His limbs are spread out at awkward angles with his face turned to the side, already snuffling out a snore as he passes out completely.

The tension leaves Archie’s shoulders as something simultaneously sweet and painful clenches his heart at the sight.

“Say that to me,” he says softly, sadly, “when you’re sober.”

The door closes with a click, and Archie tries very hard not to cry.


	2. all I want for christmas is you

Cook thought it was just Archie getting a _little_ overenthusiastic with the decorations this year.  He didn’t think much of it when he found mistletoe dangling cheerily by the entrance to their apartment, or hanging by the archway over the living room.

He did raise an eyebrow when he saw there was mistletoe tacked to their fridge in the kitchen, and was also swaying next to his keys by the garage.

It was when he saw mistletoe hanging over the mirror in their honest to god  _bathroom_  that he began to get the message.

Trying  _very_ hard to school his face into a neutral expression, even as his cheeks were hurting from stopping the grin that was threatening to take over, he sauntered over to where his boyfriend was standing in the middle of their bedroom, rocking on the balls of his socked feet and looking hopefully up at him.

“Archie,” he said slowly as he smiled despite himself, “if you wanted a kiss for Christmas, all you needed to do was  _ask.”_

Archie only beamed at him in that all-too-innocent way of his.  “Where would the fun be in that though?” he pointed out.

And then… something in the air shifted as Archie’s eyes become half-lidded and his innocent smile turned into a knowing smirk.

“Besides,” Archie mused, “you once swore to me before I moved in that you were going to kiss me in every room.”  He cocked his head playfully.  “I figured this would remind you of your… forgotten promise.”

“Oh believe me,” Cook said, his voice dropping into a rough, low baritone as he stepped forward with  _intent_.  “I had  _never_ forgotten.”

Archie met his searing gaze head-on.  He raised his arm to reveal what he had been hiding behind his back all this time… and Cook blinked.

Archie dangled the mistletoe teasingly between them and  _grinned_.

“Wanna start now?”


	3. Interlude: Part One

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Interlude from [The Prince and His Knight](http://archiveofourown.org/series/400249) verse. Archie's POV.

David wakes in bed, breathing hard.  He clutches his sheets with trembling fingers, feeling the sweat drip from his brow to land on the back of his hands.

The images are stronger now.  More potent, more  _gripping_.

It’s the first time he dreams of his Knight at length — the first time he sees more than mere glimpses or flashes of images that fade into wisps of memory come morning.

Now, the images  _stay_  with him, and their grip on his heart is so tight, it’s almost  _painful._

His Knight is  _looking_ for him.

Much in the same vein that he has always led his men, his Knight has been fronting his band in different bars, playing his guitar in lieu of the sword he has always carried by his side, and amplifying the ancient magic inside him through the electric instruments that send shockwaves of power across the screaming audience.

David punches his pillow, once, and firmly presses a hand to his chest in an attempt to calm the erratic beating of his heart — as if it’s frantically answering the call of the man in his dreams.

Wherever his Knight is, David  _hears_ him.  He hears his song, and David wants desperately to answer:

_I’m here.  I’ve always been here, waiting for you._

_Come find me._

 


	4. Interlude: Part Two

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Interlude from [The Prince and His Knight](http://archiveofourown.org/series/400249) verse. Cook's POV.

He remembers, most vividly, the Prince’s smile.

Once upon a time, David had ached to  _touch_  that smile, to trace the curve of those lips and memorise their shape in the same way that he had memorised the terrains that he and his soldiers had once patrolled every single day as part of their sworn duty to protect the Kingdom.

Now, the image of that never-forgotten smile is branded permanently into the back of his eyes as he  _dreams_ about it every night, and David isn’t sure if it’s a blessing or a curse.

He longs to touch that smile for real now, if only to feel the warmth in that mouth, the air passing between those lips — any reminder that the Prince he once failed to protect is  _alive_.

He knows that he’s being selfish—that he doesn’t deserve this second chance—but he swears he will do everything in his power to make sure he doesn’t fail his Prince this time.

… He can’t survive his heart dying a second time.

David steps onto the platform, and when he strums his guitar, he feels the tendrils of power curl through the smoke that has the meagre audience wrapped in a haze, and the reverberations of ancient magic draw them closer to the stage, almost as if they are caught in a trance.

 _This time,_  David thinks as he walks up to the mic,  _I don’t have a Kingdom to fight for anymore._

David closes his eyes, thinks of that smile… and sings.

 _This time… let me fight for_ you.


	5. The Prince and His Knight: Remix

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not really a part of [The Prince and His Knight](http://archiveofourown.org/series/400249) verse, but perhaps it can work as an alternate story to that universe?

“You don’t have to be here,” David says softly.

His knight remains silent, hazel eyes focused on the bandages he is wrapping around the prince’s sprained wrist. David bites his lip and tries again. “Really, Cook… I’m alright now. You should tend to your own wounds, as well,”  he insists as his gaze settles worriedly on the blood that has dried and matted on Cook’s hairline.

“You need not trouble yourself, my lord. These are just minor wounds, and have already been treated accordingly.” Cook’s smile is tight as he secures the bandages. “You, however, should take better care of yourself.  Especially your hands.”  His pinched expression softens.  “It would not do, my lord, for the kingdom to not only lose its only heir to the throne, but its most gifted musician as well.”

The knight’s sword-callused thumb strokes over David’s palm, and the prince shudders at sensation.  Neither of them points out how forbiddingly intimate the caress is as David’s hand curls over the knight’s fingers.  “The land will be in much greater peril if it loses its bravest warrior,” Archie counters softly.

Something flashes in Cook’s eyes—aching and sad.  “Yet it is my fate to die for my people.”  He catches David’s gaze.  “And my duty is to die for my Prince.”

“ _No_!” David exclaims, and the knight’s eyes widen, clearly taken aback at the strong burst of emotion from his liege.  “As long as I am able to draw breath, I will not allow that to happen!”

Cook’s eyes flare in anger.  “And how do you intend to do that, my lord?” His voice is dangerously low.  “Do you intend to throw yourself in front of every single citizen to protect them from these madmen invading our lands, when I  _clearly_ instructed you to stay back?”

“I cannot allow innocent people to needlessly die!”

“And how do you intend to protect them when you are the one who ends up  _dead_?” 

The prince’s eyes are heated, blazing with indignant fire.  “I would ask you the same thing, Sir Cook,” he says quietly.

Cook is startled into shocked silence. David spares a moment to glare at the other man before he quickly stands and turns away, shoulders slumping in defeat. David runs his hands over his face; he realises he is trembling.

“Forgive me,” he murmurs as he exhales shakily.  “I should not have… lost my temper like that.”

He hears the knight moving closer behind him, his footsteps soft and hesitant. “My lord,  _I_ should be the one thrown in the dungeons for raising my voice to your Highness.  It is… unforgivable.”

David laughs, a hollow sound devoid of humour.  “What’s unforgivable is that you value your own life so little.”  He turns around, his breath catching when he realises that Cook is standing close—much too close to be deemed proper, so close that they are almost sharing the same breath.

“I would tell you the same thing, my lord,” Cook whispers despairingly.

David doesn’t know if it is the weight of his guard’s words or that of the war waging around them that he suddenly feels bearing down on him, but he finds himself slumping forward in an uncharacteristic show of weakness.

And Cook is there to catch him as the knight wraps his arms tightly around him.

This… this isn’t proper  _at_   _all_ , yet at the moment, neither of them cares.

“Please do not ever leave my side again,” Cook mutters fiercely by his ear.  “I cannot protect you if you do.”

David curls his fingers against Cook’s chest, loosely gripping his tunic.  “The other knights were there to protect me.  You need not have worried.”

“ _No_ ,” says Cook, and this time, it is he whose tone is vehement.  “You do not understand, my lord.   _I_ cannot protect you.”

David shivers at the possessive undercurrent in that tone, and he steps back in confused wonder.   “What do you mean?” He looks up at his guard—and his breath is stolen from his lungs at the raw passion burning in those hazel eyes.

“All of the knights have a sworn duty to protect this kingdom.  We have dedicated our lives in service to the Archuleta family who have benevolently ruled over this land for years.  It is why we are willing to lay down our lives for this land, for its people, and for every member of the Archuleta family whom we have sworn our fealty to. However…”

Cook grips David’s arms tightly, forestalling the prince’s protest. “There is only one knight who is willing to lay down his life for  _you._   Not for the prince or for the heir of the throne.  For  _you_ , David.”

The meaning behind the lack of honorific or title is as clear as the way Cook is cupping his face in both hands, and it makes David’s heart pound wildly against his ribs.  “That is why you cannot allow anyone else to protect you other than  _me,_ my lord,” the knight whispers desperately against his lips, “because I  _swear_  to you, there is no one in this kingdom who values your life more than I do.”

And then the knight seals his mouth over his prince’s lips,  _claiming it_ , and David can only think dazedly: ‘ _This is what it must feel like to be invaded,_ ’ as his mouth is plundered by the knight who is as skilled with his tongue as he is with his sword.  

“You cannot leave me,” Cook growls in between his fevered kisses as David moans ardently and arches desperately against him.  “ _You cannot leave me_ ,” he repeats fervently, and David isn’t sure if it’s a plea or if it’s a command as the knight twines his tongue against his and  _sucks_.

“ _Cook_ ,” David sobs as he throws his head back when Cook latches onto his neck, making a territorial mark with his teeth.  “ _Please_ …”

“Please  _what_?” Cook asks roughly.

“Please,” David chokes out. “Please…  _don’t die._ ”

Both of them are breathing hard as they stare into each other’s eyes.  David cups his cheeks with shaking hands, his thumbs caressing the darkening circles underneath Cook’s eyes from sleepless nights of standing guard over his family, his people.  “Because if I am given a choice between saving this land and saving  _you_ …”

And the knight’s breath catches in his throat as he sees his prince’s eyes glistening.  “… I am afraid … this kingdom will burn.”

Cook’s eyes widen at the undeniable implication of those words, and David squeezes his eyes shut as he touches his forehead to the knight’s, letting the tears fall freely down his cheeks.

“So please,” he breathes out a watery exhale, “if you should vow anything to me, please don’t swear that you will  _die_ for me.”

He opens his eyes, and he finds that his knight is crying, too.

“Swear to me… swear to me that you will  _live_ for me.”

Something in Cook’s expression  _breaks_ , and he leans forward to kiss the dampness away from his prince’s face.

“Then you have my word, my liege.  My David,” the knight breathes his name as a promise, pressing a final, lingering kiss to his prince’s trembling lips.  “I will live… for  _you_.”

 

 


	6. need you to need me

_‘Do you feel this?’_ Archie thinks as he dips inside Cook’s parted lips, tangling briefly with his tongue before slipping out again, making Cook whimper as he chases Archie’s mouth. Archie keeps a hand gently yet firmly on Cook’s chest to halt his movements, and he feels the erratic beating of Cook’s heart beneath his palm. 

 _'Do you feel this?_ ’ he thinks heatedly as he spreads his fingers over Cook’s chest, moving in slow, lazy circles that catch lightly on Cook’s nipple, and he smiles at the way Cook bites his lip and squeezes his eyes shut, knowing that it is taking all of his willpower to keep still… because Archie has told him to.

He leans forward, unwittingly letting out a hiss when their groins brush, and Cook bucks helplessly against him, once, before Archie curls a hand over his throat warningly.

“I told you to stay still.”

He feels the way the man’s Adam’s apple bob against his palm as Cook swallows dryly and nods. Archie leans down and ignores the way Cook tilts his face upward, seeking Archie’s kiss the way a flower seeks the sun.

He can tell by the hitch on Cook’s breath that he’s surprised when Archie instead bestows a tender kiss on each of Cook’s closed lids, letting his lips brush delicately against Cook’s eyelashes. He shivers at the gust of breath that Cook releases by his ear when he shifts his attention to Cook’s cheek, lips lingering on the warm skin. He mouths along Cook’s jaw until he reaches that sensitive spot behind his ear, and Cook clutches at his shoulders when he suckles gently on Cook’s earlobe.

 _'Do you feel this?’_  he thinks as he feels the minute trembling of Cook’s body along every inch of his.

_'This… This is how much I need you.’_

He runs his tongue slowly along the shell of Cook’s ear before dipping briefly inside, and Cook shudders.

 _'Do you understand now?’_ he thinks as he clamps his thighs together to straddle Cook tightly against him, letting the other man feel the evidence of his desire while completely hindering his movements.

 _'This is how you make me feel. Breathless. Powerless. Completely at your mercy.’_  

He presses his thumbs against Cook’s jaw to keep his mouth open as he finally kisses him, drinking him in like a dying man gulps the last drops of rain in a desert.

 _'This is how much I need you. And I have to know…’_  

He rocks his hips against Cook’s, hard but oh so slow, and he swallows Cook’s moan as he delves his tongue deeper, refusing to relinquish him.

_'I have to know how much you need me too.’_


	7. you're my medicine

Cook can be an absolute baby when he’s sick.  He moans and groans that he’s about to  _die_  and it’s so unfair that he gets to go in this absolutely  _boring_  manner, and he asks Archie to please fluff up his pillows and tuck him in because it’s so hard for him to sleep with a stuffy nose and a sore throat, and he sniffles that Archie might not love him anymore because he’s disgusting and all.

Archie only smiles and takes it all in stride, knowing that underneath all the drama, Cook is simply craving for more affection.  He lets Cook snuggle up to him when Archie curls up next to him in bed and doesn’t call him out on it, so that Cook can keep up his frankly unnecessary bravado in the face of this virus that’s wrecking havoc on his body.  He allows Cook to be extra clingy in sleep even though at times it can get stifling (the man exudes body heat like a furnace) and Archie sometimes jerks awake from Cook’s extra loud snoring because of his cold. 

He keeps Cook’s bedside fully stocked with tissues and all of Cook’s favourite comfort food, and he diligently sets an alarm on his phone for each time Cook has to take his meds, because the man is such a kid and doesn’t actually  _like_  taking his medicine, never mind that it’s supposed to make him  _better_.

And when Cook finds himself going stir crazy with cabin fever, Archie only smiles knowingly and switches on the TV, and he chuckles at the way Cook lights up when he sees that Archie has downloaded all his favourite shows, and it makes Cook forget the scratch of his throat and the throbbing of his head—though once in a while, Archie turns off the TV despite Cook’s pout, as he reminds the man to actually  _rest_  for once.

And when Cook finally succumbs to the call of his body and whispers, “Goodnight, baby. I love you,” to Archie’s ear before falling asleep, Archie smiles at the warmth that blossoms from his chest as he presses a kiss to Cook’s hair, still overwhelmed at the depth of how this man trusts him, at how Cook allows himself to be this vulnerable and weak only around Archie.

It makes Archie want to be the strongest man in the world, if only so he can lend Cook all the strength he needs whenever his body fails him like this.

And Archie chuckles softly at the first snuffles of Cook snoring by his ear, and he whispers back:  “I love you too.  Please get well soon.”


	8. permanent

There are beautiful, heart wrenching notes coming from the piano, and it makes Archie pause on his way to the living room.

He remembers, suddenly.  It had been today.

He slowly steps into the threshold, and he sees Cook seated by the piano, fingers tinkering on a painfully familiar song.  Even from this distance, Archie can see that Cook’s hands are shaking.

He has always seen Cook as his pillar, a solid line of strength at his side whenever Cook pulls him close, anchoring him and grounding him with Cook’s arm thrown over Archie’s shoulder. 

This time, Cook’s shoulders are hunched, as if he’s trying to make himself smaller, as if he wants to disappear into the haunting notes his fingers are clumsily playing.

Archie moves slowly into Cook’s line of sight, wary of how Cook will react, wondering if his presence is welcome. He sees Cook stiffen and hesitate, and Archie is ready to leave if Cook wants him to.  Instead, Cook seems to slowly breathe out as he shifts to one side, silently making room beside him.

Archie feels a vice-like grip squeezing his chest, and he swallows back the tingling of his throat.  He knows what Cook is quietly asking—and what he wordlessly needs from Archie.

He carefully seats himself into the space Cook has left for him, and he watches as Cook resumes his playing. Archie waits as Cook plays the notes of the intro… and as soon as the verse comes in, Archie’s own hands join in playing the melody.

Neither of them can find it in themselves to sing—Cook doesn’t seem to have any strength left, and Archie doesn’t believe even his voice is enough to carry Cook through this.

But perhaps… their hands can sing what their voices can’t.

_Is this the moment where I look you in the eye?_

Archie’s hands steadily play the notes of the melody, even as Cook struggles to keep up with the rhythm. His hands are shaking so badly now.

_Forgive my broken promise that you’ll never see me cry._

Archie slows his own notes, keeping time with the beat Cook is setting, and following his lead.

_And everything it will surely change even if I tell you I won’t go away today._

The ebony and ivory keys are now damp from the rain falling from Cook’s eyes, and still… still he keeps on playing.

And Archie’s hands keep on singing along with him.

_Will you think that you’re all alone when no one’s there to hold your hand?_

Cook’s hands are faltering now, losing their sense of timing, and Archie wordlessly takes over, his own hands playing the rhythm Cook is losing and the melody Cook can’t sing. 

_When all you know seems so far away, and everything is temporary…_

Cook has stopped playing entirely, both of his hands clenched tightly into trembling fists on top of the keys. Archie looks at him as he lets his right hand play the last of the lyrics… 

_… Rest your head._

_…_ and his left slides over to rest on top of Cook’s.

Cook squeezes his eyes shut as he chokes out a sob, and Archie is ready for it.

He opens his arms as Cook crashes into them, and he wraps his arms around Cook as he clutches at Archie’s shirt and buries his head on the crook between Archie’s neck and shoulder.

The way Cook grieves is silent, the cries he refuses to let escape through his mouth reverberating inward instead as his entire body shakes with it.  Archie holds him steadily through the storm, one hand rubbing soothingly up and down Cook’s back as the other threads through Cook’s hair, anchoring him close.  Cook tightens his grip around Archie, as if he is desperately trying to squeeze the last drops of strength Archie can offer, and even though Archie can barely breathe with the way Cook is clinging desperately to him, he closes his eyes and prays to a God he’s not even sure is still listening to let Cook have this.

He remembers how people have always remarked how he always seemed to glow, especially on stage, radiating with an inner light that makes people drawn to him.  

He wants to give all of that light to Cook now.  He wants to vanquish all the shadows that has always dogged Cook’s steps and his music ever since he lost his brother, the brightness in his eyes always tempered by an unspoken darkness that has always lingered, and will probably never go away.

 _Please_ , he prays as he closes his own eyes,  _even if you extinguish my own… let Cook always have this light._

He feels Cook let out a long, watery exhale, and he allows Cook to pull back from him.  Cook looks at him through red-rimmed eyes, and Archie offers him a small, sad smile as he wipes the tears away from Cook’s cheeks.  Cook catches his hand, turning it so he can bestow a kiss in the middle of Archie’s palm, before he presses Archie’s hand to his cheek.

Archie leans forward and touches his forehead to Cook’s, watching the other man’s eyes fall close once more as Archie’s other hand delicately clutches at Cook’s neck.  No words pass between them; no words are needed.  They breathe together, and the message is quiet, but clear.

_…I’m permanent._


	9. heaven by your side

Archie is sitting in the living room, tinkering on their old piano, when Cook shuffles in, still blinking the sleep out of his eyes.  He sees the way the sunlight streaming in through their window shines a golden light on his husband’s features—like a halo, fittingly.  That once youthful face is more wrinkled now, but has still retained that untouchable brightness in his eyes.  Cook stands there, heart suddenly tightening, at the realisation that he’s had this for 40 or so years now—he can’t even remember how long it’s been.

But he’ll always remember the crow’s feet that feather around those beloved eyes when they finally catch his gaze, and the quirk of that mouth (that he still loves kissing) when Archie smiles at him and tells him, in the same way he always has, everyday for the past 40 years…

“… Good morning, you big dork.”

Archie walks across the room to give him a good morning kiss, and it makes Cook grin fondly at how his husband still has to stand on his toes to reach him, and at how Archie still gives him that pout when he’s pretending to be annoyed.  Cook chuckles and relents as he leans down, and Archie happily presses against him in their kiss, his fingers curling at Cook’s nape to keep him close.

For the past year, Archie has developed a new habit aside from this good morning kiss—now, Archie pulls away and bows his head to press another kiss to Cook’s heart.  Even after so many mornings like this, it still makes Cook swallow back the tightness of his throat at the tenderness of the action, and the meaning behind it. 

Underneath Cook’s shirt is a scar across his heart, remnants of the heart bypass surgery he had to undergo last year.  Cook has never seen a more heartbreaking sight than Archie looking so lost, so scared, and so  _alone_ , right before he was wheeled in for his surgery.

It was at that moment that he realised he couldn’t die.  Not yet. Not when Archie would be left behind like this.

And in that moment of clarity, he remembered a time, 40 years ago, when  _he_  was the one left behind—when the two years without Archie left him feeling soulless, empty—and he realised…  _this_  was what it must have felt like, leaving behind the person you love most, and Cook suddenly  _gets_  it.

Much as it had been painful for him to be left behind, it had been equally painful for Archie to leave.

He wraps his arms around his husband now, and Archie curls his fingers against Cook’s shirt in return.  Archie places a hand over Cook’s heart, and Cook silently lets him, knowing that Archie needs reassurance that Cook’s heart is still beating, that it’s not going to stop anytime soon, that they will still have this, each other, for just a little bit longer.

Cook presses his lips on his husband’s forehead, and remembers all the songs they have written for each other, and sung to each other, and thinks…

 _‘We are never going to die, David.’_ He tucks his head against his husband’s neck and kisses him there, making Archie shiver. ‘ _Not while these songs live on. These songs will be the proof that we have loved each other endlessly._ ’

His mouth moves to caress the greying strands around Archie’s temple.   _‘So keep singing for me, David. For us.  And all the people who have loved us too… they will keep our love forevermore.’_

“I want you to know,” Archie softly murmurs against his chest, “that ever since I met you, I stopped believing in heaven.” 

It makes Cook’s heart seize a little. ”…Why?“

And his angel of a husband pulls back to look up at him and bestow that smile that won him (and the world) over since American Idol.

”… Because I can’t imagine how it gets any better than this.“


	10. redemption

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "I write because you exist." - Michael Faudet

The stars aren’t as clear and beautiful here as it was in Chile.  It’s one of the things he misses the most.

His hands are shaking so badly.

Cook stares at him first, then at the volumes he’s holding.  “What are all these, Arch?”

As Cook reaches out to take them from him, Archie curls his fingers inward to resist the temptation to brush them against Cook’s—and to hide how much they’re trembling. His hands have always been the dead giveaway of how nervous and afraid he is, and he has learned through the years to camouflage the way they quiver by moving them constantly as he speaks or sings.

He’s doing neither now, so he has no way to hide, except to curl his hands on his lap as he silently watches Cook open the first page.  He sees Cook’s eyes widen, and he clenches his hands so tightly that his nails are digging into his own skin.

“Those are my journals,” Archie explains quietly, the calmness of his voice belying the way he’s shaking. “During the mission we were encouraged to disconnect from social media, and I couldn’t do my vlogs anymore, so…”

“So you chose to write, instead,” Cook murmurs.

Archie swallows thickly. “Something like that.”

Archie steadies his breathing as he watches Cook go through the pages one by one.  He bites his lip as the urge to run his thumbs through Cook’s creased eyebrows becomes overwhelming.

God, how his hands  _ache_ for him.

“…You wrote everyday.”

“Yes… I did.” 

_For two years._

Cook finally looks up and catches Archie’s gaze.  There had been a time in the past when Archie could fathom every single nuance of Cook’s eyes, every different shade that they transformed into depending on what Cook was feeling.

… Cook’s eyes betray nothing now.

(Or has Archie simply forgotten how to read them?)

“This isn’t like any of your vlogs.”

Archie’s heart is hammering so violently against his chest that he’s surprised Cook can’t hear it, even though he is sitting a few feet away.  He knows what Cook has realised even in just a few pages.  

“No.  It’s not.”

Cook presses his lips together, dropping his gaze back to the journal in his hands; Archie sharply inhales in that broken connection, only then realising that he has forgotten to breathe.

“These are…” Cook hesitates as his fingers stroke the pages, and Archie swallows back a whimper as—in a blinding flash of sensate memory—he remembers  _exactly_ how that caress  _feels_  against his own skin.

He sees Cook take a deep breath as he searches for the right word.  “These are…  _unfiltered_.”

Archie can only nod silently as Cook’s gaze flicker back to him.  It’s the word that best describes everything he’s written, and at the same time it isn’t enough. 

What word can aptly represent the most deeply buried secrets of his heart?  What description can perfectly encompass every doubt and fear that shadowed his every step?  What narrative can suitably illustrate all the hopes and dreams that give him a reason to wake up each morning?  What language can represent all the passion and tenderness within him, all the helplessness and indignation and frustration and determination?

How can one encompass in a single word all the love inside of him, when even the entire expanse of the universe seems  _insignificant_ compared to how Cook makes him feel?

How can one encompass in a single word how it felt to  _long_ for him with both his body and his soul; to crave his touch, his kiss, his laughter, his gaze, his warmth, his scent, his voice—

… his  _heart_?

“Archie,” Cook says hoarsely _._ “Why are you giving these to me?”

He remembers the first night he spent in Chile, marvelling at how beautifully  _brighter_ the stars shone there, and in the exact moment that he turned around to share his joy and his excitement, he was powerfully overcome with speechless despair as it hit him that  _Cook wasn’t there._

“Because there wasn’t a day I didn’t think of you.”

He swears he actually sees the way Cook stops breathing. 

“… _What?_ ” 

He doesn’t think he can hide the trembling of his hands now, but perhaps it doesn’t matter anymore—Cook isn’t looking anywhere but his eyes.  Feeling strangely stripped and naked in the intensity of Cook’s gaze, Archie forces his own eyes away and instead focuses on keeping his clenched fists steady.

“There was never a moment that I didn’t want to share with you,” Archie says softly.  “And so I wrote it all down.  Every thought, every emotion, every experience and every epiphany of every single day—I wrote it all down for you, because—”

The words get stuck in his throat as his vision suddenly blurs; the back of his hands feel wet and, as he squeezes his eyes shut, he realises his cheeks do, too.   

“Because I want you to know that it’s still yours.”  He can barely speak now, but he has to get the words out, even as they feel like shards of glass cutting through his throat and tongue.  “All of it.  Every single part of me, even the parts you’ve never seen before, the parts I’ve never allowed anyone else to see.  It’s all there.  The good, the bad, the ugly.  The light and the dark, and all the shadows in between.” 

Warm, rough, guitar-callused fingers close over his, and the familiarity of the touch  _shatters_  him.

“I’m sorry…” he whispers brokenly. “Please forgive me for all the hurt that I caused you.  I know it’s not a consolation, but if… if you still want it… I want to share everything with you.” 

This time, it’s not only his hands that are shaking as he begins to feel himself falling apart at the seams.  

“I missed you,” he chokes out.  “ _I missed you._ ”

He finds himself anchored by the way Cook firmly forces his fists to unclench.  Cook threads his own fingers through the spaces between Archie’s and grips Archie’s hands tightly—and it is then, and only then, that Archie finally feels  _whole_ again.

He feels a gentle nudge against his forehead, and he blinks his eyes open to see Cook steadily holding his gaze. Cook leans against Archie as he touches their foreheads together; their faces are so close that their breaths are mingling, hot against each other’s skin.  And dimly Archie realises, with the way their shoulders heave in unison, that they are breathing as one.

 _Rainclouds,_ he thinks dazedly.   _His eyes look like rainclouds._

It’s a new shade—dark and heavy and tinged with grey—and he wonders what this particular shade means as rain starts falling from Cook’s eyes, too. 

He doesn’t know if he’ll ever have Cook’s forgiveness.  He’s certain he doesn’t deserve it.  He doesn’t even deserve Cook’s tears, even as he knows he is the cause of it.

Why would he still deserve Cook’s love?

 _Let me try,_  he thinks fiercely.   _I know I don’t deserve you._

_… But Christ, how I’ll try._


	11. cinnamon kisses

Archie doesn’t know if Cook knows, but he loves the taste of cinnamon.

He especially loves the taste of it mixed into hot chocolate, the way his mother would make on special days like Christmas, or their birthdays, or any special gathering that involves family, or a reunion of some sort.

The velvety slide of the chocolate mimics the slide of Cook’s tongue against his, and he loves relishing the taste of cinnamon infused in his drink, in the same way he loves licking the taste of it from Cook’s mouth.

 

* * *

 

Cook doesn’t know if Archie knows, but he loves chewing cinnamon gum because it reminds him of Archie.

It’s a taste he’s grown addicted to, ever since the first time he kissed the younger boy as he was enjoying his favourite drink, and he moaned at the way Archie’s tongue swirled against his, coating his mouth with the heady taste of chocolate mixed with cinnamon.

He loves cinnamon gum because, during the nights when they’re apart, on separate states and separate time zones, he likes to be reminded of Archie’s taste, so he won’t miss his kisses—and he’s reminded of who, exactly, those kisses belong to.


	12. can't let the music stop

 

“Archie.”

“No.”

“ _Ar-cheee.”_

He sighs.  “ _No,_ Cook.”

Archie determinedly ignores the way Cook attaches himself to Archie’s back, wrapping his arms around Archie’s waist and propping his chin on Archie’s shoulder.

“Come on, Arch,” Cook persists, “ _dance with me._ ”

“Cook, I’m preparing our dinner _._ ”

He can practically feel Cook’s pout from behind him.  “Let’s just order in, then.”

Archie rolls his eyes.  “Cook, you’re going to be eating  _healthy_  tonight,” he threatens, “or  _so help me—”_

He stops mid-sentence as music suddenly blasts from the living room and a very,  _very_  familiar song starts to play.

Aghast, he whirls around and brandishes his spatula at the other man.  “Oh you did  _not._ ”

Cook grins maniacally.  “Oh yes I  _did_.”

Archie runs a hand tiredly over his face as he hears  _his own voice_  singing from their speakers.

“ _Trying to reach out to you, touch my hand,_ ” Cook sings gleefully as he pulls at Archie’s arm.  “ _Reach out as far as you can.”_ He reaches behind Archie to safely turn off the stove, and tugs Archie’s spatula out of his hand to put it on the counter.   _“Only me, only you, and the band_ —actually you know what, screw the band.”

“Language, Cook,” Archie admonishes without heat, unable to mask his amusement as he allows himself to be led out of the kitchen.

“ _Can’t let the music stop!_ ” Cook sings at the top of his lungs as he sways them both to the beat.

“You’re a horrible dancer,” Archie informs him, but falls into step with Cook anyway.

Cook tugs Archie closer, securing Archie’s arms around his own waist.  “ _Can’t let this feeling end,_ ” Cook continues, his voice softer this time.

“And you are  _such_ a sap,” says Archie fondly as he reaches up to brush the bangs away from Cook’s face.

“ _‘Cause if I do, it’ll all be over.”_ Cook touches his forehead to Archie’s, and the playfulness fades from his features to be replaced by something wistful. “ _I’ll never get the chance again._ ”

Something inside Archie’s chest twists as he realises exactly what the other man is implying.

Cook blinks when Archie forces them to stop moving.  Archie smiles at his questioning look, wordlessly telling him to wait, because he knows exactly what lyrics are coming up next.

“ _Saw you from the audience_ ,” he sings, his present voice mingling flawlessly with his voice from seven years ago.  “ _Saw you on the stage_.”

Cook’s eyes widen at the way Archie deliberately changes the lyrics, and Archie knows Cook suddenly realises  _why._

“ _Something ‘bout the look in your eyes…”_ he sings softly as he gently caresses Cook’s cheek, remembering the way his heart jumped to his throat when his gaze locked with Cook’s up on that stage in Sandy, not knowing if Cook even wanted him to be there.

He lets his voice slide into that falsetto he hasn’t used in a long time— _two years_ , his mind helpfully reminds him.  “ _Something ‘bout your beautiful face…”_

The rest of the lyrics are lost as Cook surges forward to capture Archie’s mouth in his, the desperation in the action tempered by the tenderness of the sentiment behind it.

Archie holds on to Cook’s face even as they separate for breath. “ _I won’t let the music stop.”_ He watches the way Cook’s eyes flutter open, and he is rewarded by the breathtaking sight of his favourite shade of blue—not even the clear skies of Chile can compare to the beauty that is Cook looking at him like a  _miracle._

Archie threads his fingers through Cook’s hair and whispers against Cook’s mouth:  _“I won’t let this feeling end._ ”

And Archie knows Cook finally believes him when he seals that promise with a kiss. 


	13. moments of love

It’s when Cook leans away when Archie tilts his head up to kiss him good morning, because Cook has just downed a mouthful of coffee and Archie doesn’t even _drink_  coffee; and it’s when Archie smiles and pulls him back and kisses him anyway.

It’s when Cook bows his head in deference and respect to Archie saying his prayers, even though Cook isn’t religious, but he knows this is something Archie strongly believes in; and it’s when Archie stops praying silently like he does before, and always softly lets his prayers be heard now, because most of them revolve about this, them, their life together.

It’s when Archie sets his phone to vibrate under his pillow as his silent alarm, and he slowly, slowly finds a way to untangle himself from Cook’s limbs so he won’t wake him up; and it’s when Cook wakes up alone and realises Archie has risen an hour earlier than he usually does for his morning run just to cook and serve him breakfast in bed.

It’s when Cook sings the lyrics to the opening song of _Pokemon_ and recites Team Rocket’s motto perfectly when they watch the episodes (again); and it’s when Archie buys for them matching Royals jerseys which are—of course—numbered with the date of their anniversary.

It’s when Cook secretly begins taking Spanish classes, and performs a private concert to an audience of one with songs all in Spanish for Archie’s birthday; and it’s when Cook blinks when Archie shows him photos of incredibly beautiful tattoos, all of which symbolise _them_ in some way, and Archie tells him with a beatific smile, “Choose which one, and where in my body you want it.”

(They get admittedly… _distracted_  after that, and don’t come out of the bedroom until the next morning.)

It’s when Archie melts into Cook’s arms at the end of an exhausting day, and Cook always has this sixth sense of knowing when to not ask, and Archie allows himself to be carried and tucked in with a kiss pressed to his brow, like the child he was once forced to grow quickly out of.

It’s when Cook never speaks ill of Jeff; and it’s when Archie always speaks well of Adam.

It’s when Jazzy and Amber starts to refer to Cook as their third brother, and Beth begins calling Archie her fourth son.

But mostly, it’s this: 

When they’re sitting together on the porch, the silence between them comforting, with nothing more needing to be said as they watch the sunset together, knowing that at the end of the day, it is this they will always come home to.

This love, always, forever.


	14. boy you're looking (like you like what you see)

You’re certain he doesn’t even realise it, but David Archuleta is _checking you out._

It’s not even something he openly shows -- the boy is as mysterious and impenetrable as a locked room -- but it’s something that you catch during the rare moments he _slips_.

And here’s the incredibly fascinating thing about David Archuleta: he’s not transparent at all, but he’s also incapable of being anything other than _honest_.  Which is how you know all his reactions are genuine, because he’s physically incapable of pretending to show anything other than what he’s really _feeling_.

And right now?  David Archuleta is interested in you.  Very, _very_ interested.

It’s... not exactly a bad thing.  Hell, it’s _flattering_ for someone as gorgeous as this kid to even look _twice_ at you, because seriously, is he even real?  Girls _and_ boys of all ages fall over themselves whenever he’s near; it’s like he’s that Pied Piper from those fairy tales Adam used to read to you as a kid, except Archie is completely unaware that he has that kind of power -- and that he has _you_ under his spell, too.

And that... is _precisely_  the problem.

Because the problem isn’t that you’re not interested in him.  The problem is that you’re very, _very_ interested in him too.

... He just happens to have the most unfortunate mix of being an _underage Mormon boy_.

(It kind of makes you feel like the gates of hell are opening up to you just at the thought, though to be honest?  You really don’t care -- as long as he isn’t dragged down there with you.)

What makes you feel bad, though, is how incredibly _guilty_ he looks when you catching him _wanting you._ You want to tell him it’s normal to be attracted to anyone, _regardless of their gender_ , except you can’t exactly comfort him when you’re having a sexual identity crisis yourself, because even just _fantasising_ about him still feels like... you’re _defiling_ him, somehow, even within the safe privacy of your own mind.

(You don’t want to acknowledge the fact that maybe it’s because your need to care for him and protect him _especially_  from yourself extends to _far more_ than a simple crush, and _whoa_ , no no no, you don’t want to go _there_  yet, you can’t, not with _Archie_ , surely...?)

But as you’ve already established about the guy, Archie’s not exactly transparent.  You can clearly see from the way he quickly looks away when you catch _him_ looking at _you_ that he’s _guilty_ , but for the life of you, you can’t understand the reason behind that guilt.

Besides, you’re slowly beginning to be disabused of the notion that it’s because of his conservative and religious upbringing; Archie has absolutely no problem with any _boy_ propositioning him in his shows or even in fan meets (although _you’re_ the one who has a problem with _them_ when they get too handsy, because seriously, what the hell?  Archie isn’t their _property!)_

Basically, David Archuleta confuses the _hell_ out of you, and the bad thing is?  His being _such_ a puzzle wrapped in an enigma is precisely what makes him so damn _attractive._  

You break out of your thoughts as the pretty young blonde giggling in front of you wraps her manicured fingers around your arm, and she bats her heavily made-up eyes, and okay, she’s flirting, and _this_  you can handle, so you put on your best smoulder and begin to harness all your skills in _flirting back_ \--

That is, until, you catch Archie glancing at you from over her shoulder, and-- _there_.

...  Whoa.  What was _that_?

The girl--Is she a fan? The _daughter_ of a fan? You aren’t even sure anymore--tries desperately to keep your attention, but you give her your best smile and your most charming wink as you walk away, clearly indicating that this conversation is over, because seriously, _what the hell was that look on Archie’s face?_ It’s not... it’s not _jealousy_ , not exactly, because Archie’s too good of a soul to feel something as _petty_ as jealousy.

Archie simply looked... _hurt._

You frown at the thought, feeling a strange sort of _twinge_ inside your chest, and you quickly jog over to where he has just finished signing his own autographs.  “Hey, Arch!”

His angelic features break into a smile at the sight of you, and you sort of _melt_ into your shoes, because _that_?  That’s genuine, and he’s genuinely _happy_ to see you, and your stupid stomach is doing somersaults at the thought and-- _what is even happening?_

“Hey, Cook,” he greets you warmly.  “Done interacting with the fans?”

You shrug nonchalantly.  “For the day, I guess.”  You hesitate, debating with yourself at the ridiculous notion, and you decide to get it over with before it drives you absolutely _crazy_.  “You okay, though?”

He looks genuinely confused at the question.  “Yes?  Why wouldn’t I be?”

Well, _now_ you feel stupid.  “It’s just, uh, I saw you looking over to where I was and...” you trail off, not knowing how to continue that sentence at all without giving yourself away.

(Wait, what?  What is there to give away about yourself?)

“Oh.”  A blush feathers across his cheeks and his nose and those _adorable_ ears, and you can’t help but crack a smile at the sight.  “I just... I was just admiring you?”

His intonation phrases it as a question, but it’s also a damn honest one, and you can’t help but blush yourself.  “Uh, thanks?”  Self-proclaimed word nerd at a loss for _words_ , and you want to bury your head in the ground like an ostrich.  What the _hell,_ David Roland?

Unaware of how you’re inwardly berating yourself, Archie shyly ducks his head.  “You’re a natural charmer, Cook,” he says softly.  “You can have anyone you want, you know.”

He glances up at you from beneath his long, fluttering lashes for just a mere second--and you feel the breath knocked out of you as you finally realise what it _is._

Archie looks over to where the fans are still lingering about, and he smiles--a little sadly?--at the pretty young blonde you were just flirting with when she flips her hair over her shoulder and laughs at something her friends are saying.

It’s not guilt.  It’s not even god damn jealousy.

“I can’t blame you for being drawn to beautiful people,” he murmurs.

It’s... _insecurity._

Something inside your chest _blooms_ at the thought, and before you’re even aware of what you’re doing, you quickly catch Archie’s hand in yours to get his attention, and at the look of genuine surprise on his face--curiosity mixed with fear and tentative _hope_ \--you finally,  _finally_ realise something about yourself too:

You’ve been a lying, prevaricating old fool who’s been in love with him for _months_.

“Cook?” He sounds so small, but oh, he sounds so _hopeful_.

Turning so you shield him from everyone else’s view, you pull him gently forward   by the hand, and he stumbles against your chest as you cup his jaw.

“Exactly, Archie,” you say breathlessly, huskily, watching those hazel eyes go wide with _want_.  “ _Exactly.”_


	15. tattooed on my soul

The first time it happens is at a bar, just as they are finishing up their set.

David has just thanked and bid the meagre Tuesday night crowd goodnight, and he’s in the process of removing the strap of his electric guitar from his shoulder when he happens to glance at the inside of his left arm.

There, carved into the flesh, is a glowing, sinuous G clef.

He stares.  Then he hisses out, “What the fuck did you put in my drink, Neal?”

Neal only snorts.  “Nothing you haven’t drunk before in liters, Dave. Where’d you put the cables?”

David rolls his eyes.  “I already packed them when you were too enamoured of that brunette making eyes at you earlier.  You’re the hot lead guitarist after all.”

Neal merely flips a finger at him, and David laughs, and he doesn’t think about it as the rest of the band hustles to wrap up the instruments from the stage.

As they make their way to the back of the bar, David can’t resist looking at his arm again, and isn’t surprised to see it blank.

 

* * *

 

The second time it happens is when he’s practicing with his acoustic guitar alone in his apartment, trying and failing to write a new song; and just as he’s sliding his fingers across the fretboard, he actually _sees_ the way the G clef appears on his arm as if with an invisible brush — now followed by a time signature.

He stops and stares.  He’s quite _sure_ he isn’t drunk this time.

It’s when notes begin appearing (quarter notes and half notes and eighth notes) that he curses under his breath — and he scrambles for a piece of paper and a pen to copy it all down.

Regardless of whether he’s high or drunk or dreaming, he’s not going to let this opportunity pass.

Maybe this is the universe’s way of giving him inspiration for new music.

 

* * *

 

It begins happening more frequently, and David has long stopped trying to make sense of it all.  

Curiously, there’s a certain schedule to the way the notes appear on his skin: it usually happens late in the afternoon and early into the evening during weekdays, mostly on Saturdays, and never on a Sunday.

It’s almost as if... someone is scribbling his _homework_ or some after-school project, and the paper just happens to be David’s skin.

Nevertheless, he’s thankful he listened to his first instinct of copying it all down; for some reason, the marks fade after fourteen minutes.

It’s _always_ fourteen minutes.

Now, there’s an F clef appearing underneath the scrawly G clef, and David finally realises: he’s copying notes for a _piano sheet_.

He pauses in his copying and stares almost in betrayal at his arm.  Why in the world is the universe giving him a piece for an instrument he _barely_ knows how to play?

And as if the universe has heard his unspoken question, chords begin appearing underneath the notes.

_Bm, G, D, A._

David grabs his guitar just in time before the last of the letters fade.

 

* * *

 

By this time, David can already hum the melody under his breath based on the notes, and he has already figured out a way to work out the tabs and the strumming based on the chords.

... He just doesn’t have the lyrics.

“Aw c’mon, man,” he complains when Andrew walks into the living room and switches on the TV.  “I’m still practicing!”

Bowl of chips in hand, Andrew ignores him as he settles himself comfortably on the couch.  “Go practice in your room then, it’s my turn to watch TV.”

David grumbles under his breath, quietly so that their mother doesn’t hear, and moves to go upstairs when he hears something that makes him freeze.

“Wait!” he says in panic when Andrew moves to switch the channel.  “I... I wanna hear this.”

Andrew stares at him.  “Okay...?” he says dubiously, but relents.

Heart hammering wildly against his chest, David steps closer to the screen, almost as if in a trance; it’s a music video of a young boy sitting by a piano on a wooden pathway at some lake—but that’s not what has caught his attention.

“Dave?” Andrew says in amusement, smirking.  “You have a thing for Mormon boys now?”

David moves his mouth soundlessly like a gaping fish, not knowing what to say.  He’s too shocked not only at _hearing_ the previously unknown music he has been diligently practicing for _months_ now, but at finally, _finally_ hearing the lyrics to the actual _song._

_“Do you ever think when we’re all alone, all that we could be, where this thing could go?”  
_

And he doesn’t know who is more surprised—Andrew, or himself—when he manages to sing along the newly-released music by this unknown artist _._

 _In perfect tune_.

“ _Am I crazy or falling in love?”_  David’s voice flawlessly blends with that of the boy on screen; inside his shirt, his heart tattoo suddenly feels _warm._

_“... Is it real or just another crush?”  
_


	16. please don't let me go (I desperately need you)

_Breathe,_ you tell yourself over the thunderous beating of your heart, _he’s safe_.

He walks over to you, flushed and relieved and smiling widely, and you can’t help it—you pull him close to hug him perhaps a little tighter than you should.

“You’re safe, Arch,” you rasp against the curve of his neck, and he huffs out a breathless laughter.

“So are you, Cook!” he exclaims brightly as he pats you on the back, and you take it as an unintended, unspoken signal of: _you can let go anytime now._

You paste a smile on your face as you step back and ruffle his hair.  He tries to look annoyed at you at the action, but the expression on his face ends up being somewhat fond instead, and you feel your chest tightening all over again.

God, you’re more scared of his elimination than yours.

You watch as Ryan makes the final announcements and reminds the viewers at home to tune in next week, and that’s seven days of being able to breathe easy for a while, knowing that you’re still together.

You’re not blind to what’s happening; you find your chances inching ever so slowly up as the pressures of the competition is making the poor boy slip ever so slightly down, and though you should be happy at your chance at being _the_ next American Idol, you suddenly don’t want to stand there at the top—alone.

You sneak a glance over to where he’s clapping for the cameras as they pan in for the final scenes, oblivious to the warring of your heart and mind, and you amend that thought:

You suddenly don’t want to stand there at the top of the competition _without him._

There’s no one else you want to stand with at the end of it all.

(Or will it be the beginning?)

Later, when Andrew hugs you, giddy and ecstatic at the thought of you making it through another week, he’s surprised when the first thing you ask him is: “Did you vote for Archie too?”

He blinks, and he pauses when he opens his mouth, and internally you’re begging him: _please don’t ask please don’t ask please don’t ask._

He tilts his head thoughtfully, and the silent communication seems to get through as he smiles instead.  “Of course, Dave.  You practically begged us to, after all.”

You sigh in relief, not even bothering to react to that gentle ribbing.  “Thanks, Drew.  Please... keep voting for him?”

Andrew is about to answer when a shuffling sound behind you makes you whirl around.

You’re surprised to find him standing there.

“Oh gosh, I’m so sorry, I didn’t—I didn’t mean to eavesdrop or something, I just _heard_  what you guys were saying and I just, oh _gosh_ —”

He’s fluttering his hands and stammering so awkwardly, and Andrew’s laughing so hard, and you’re half-amused and half-horrified at what he had heard.

“Oh but, _gosh_ Cook,” he says as he smiles at you, and you can’t help but helplessly fall a little bit more in love with him:  “I just thought you should know: I asked my sisters to vote for you, too.”

You hold your breath at that; even Andrew falls suddenly quiet.

He suddenly seems to have realised what he has said, and he ducks his head shyly.  He scuffs the toe of his sneaker at the floor as he softly admits:

“I’d want to be with you for as long as it takes.”


	17. always be your baby

You don’t know how it happened, only that it did, and now there’s nothing you can do at how _helpless_ you are around him.

Maybe it’s the way you feel utterly _safe_  with him around, the way his touch gives you comfort instead of all awkward jittery nerves the way it does when the others do it.

Maybe it’s the way his laughter sounds like the most joyful sound in the world and all the fears and worries of the competition melt away when you see him _happy._

Maybe it’s the curve of his jaw, the stubble that has you all hot and shivery when they rasp against your skin, or the way he holds his guitar _fascinates_ you, the way his fingers slide firm and sure over the fret and you wonder how the calluses formed at his fingertips will slide against your own _skin._

Maybe it’s the way you want to tell him, when he pulls you close: _hold me and never let me go, because I feel lost without you now, shipwrecked at sea, and it’s so scary to make it on my own now, and please tell me you’ll always be my side because I feel out of balance without you, my centre of gravity, because you keep me grounded, you keep me sane, and oh please tell me you’ll never ever leave?_

Maybe it’s the way you find yourself smiling when you watch him, enraptured by the quirk of that mouth or the twinkle of those eyes or the way his scent wraps around you like a protective blanket, calming you instead of overwhelming you, and the smile that breaks across your face is soft and genuine, instead of the mask you’re forced to wear around everyone else, because with him, you’re _happy_.

Maybe it’s the way you stopped wondering if this feeling is wrong, despite the fact that all your life, you’ve been taught that it’s wrong to have feelings for another man.

But maybe, just maybe, it’s the way your heart leaps at the sight of him, joyful and free at the realisation that it has finally found its other half.

It’s not a coincidence, you think, that you share the same first name.  Maybe someday, you get to share the same last name too.

Someday, maybe, when society--and your own family--is a little more accepting of a love like this.

Now, you’re just letting yourself fall--helpless and vulnerable--because it’s the way you are certain, as sure as the sun rises in the east, that he will always catch you, no matter what, that you know:

You will always be in love with David Cook.


	18. promise me home

He’s shaking so badly in your arms.

 _What’s wrong?_ you want to ask, but you already know the answer.  You try to change it to _are you okay?_ but you already know the answer to that too.

You feel your shirt getting damp as he buries himself impossibly closer, clutching tightly at the fabric, and when you realise why, you start to panic a little.  “Arch—”

He shakes his head frantically, refusing to talk, refusing to even look at you, and you can only wrap your arms helplessly around him, burying your nose in his hair and trying to breathe him in, trying to forever stamp the memory of his scent in your mind because you won’t have that for two years, and it’s that sudden thought that makes you squeeze your eyes shut as you try your damnedest to stop your own tears from escaping.

He needs you to be strong right now, damn it, so you have to pull yourself together.   _For him._

He takes in a deep, watery gulp of air as he slides his hands downward and wraps his arms around your waist, his palms flat against the small of your back, and it feels like a brand, somehow, his handprints forever printed on your skin.

You bite your tongue to swallow the words that threaten to come out, words such as: _you’ve already left a mark on me, forever, and nothing will ever erase your tattoo on my heart._

You can almost laugh at how cheesy it sounds in your head, except you feel your chest constricting at its _truth._

_... How in the world am I ever going to survive without you, Arch?_

As if hearing your unspoken question, he exhales shakily; finally, _finally--_ heflutters his eyes open to look at you, the dampness still clinging to his impossibly long lashes.

... He’s beautiful even when he cries.

His lips part to say something, his tongue wetting them nervously as is his habit, and you are suddenly seized with the realisation that you’ve never even known how that mouth _tastes_.

“Cook,” he whispers.  “What if... what if you forget about me?”

For several heart-stopping seconds, it’s as if your world has stopped turning; faced with the impossibility of that question, your mind blanks out and you can only think: ... _what?_

Trembling, Archie reaches up to flatten his hand over your heart.  It beats faster under his touch: _ba-dum, ba-dum, ba-dum_.

“Two years is a long time,” he says softly, closing his eyes to tuck his head under your chin; you feel him inhale deeply, as if he’s trying to breathe _you_ in too, and you shudder both at the sensation, and at the realisation that _he doesn’t know._

Your throat constricts with everything you want to say.  

_Don’t you know that every time you’re near, I want to reach out to you and tuck you close and never let you go ever again, because I can’t remember ever living without your smile, and I live everyday for your laughter, for making you laugh, and I can’t handle the thought of someone else making you laugh like this and touching you like this and tucking you in when you fall asleep the way I used to when we were touring together, and I will never get tired of hearing your voice, ever, on the radio when they play your songs, on TV when they interview you, on stage when you perform and you ramble on endlessly to your fans, and especially when you tell me goodnight and you tell me good morning and it’s your voice I first encounter when I wake and the last before I go to sleep, and how can I ever, ever face every waking moment of every day without that now?_

_Don’t you know that forgetting you is like forgetting how to breathe?_

You feel him shaking in your arms again, and you swallow it all back.

_Be strong.  Be strong, for him._

With calm, steady hands that you don’t know how you’ve managed to control, you cup his jaw and gently turn his face up toward you.

“I’ll make you a deal, Archuleta,” you say with a smile that you hope reaches your eyes:  “After two years, I’ll be there in Utah to welcome you home.”

His eyes widen, as if he’s that much shocked to know that you really are going to wait for him, and you swallow back the words: _I can wait forever if you want me to.  I’m gonna love you endlessly_.

(Dimly, you feel the gears at the back of your mind whirring with inspiration at the beginnings of a new song.)

You lean forward and press your forehead to his.  “But you have to promise me something in return.”

Something in his gaze _shatters,_  and his hands come up to curl over your wrists.

“... _Anything,”_  he whispers, and you feel your heart _break_  at the earnestness, at the _desperation_.

Your thumbs wipe the tears away from his cheeks, and you feel your spine tingling at the juxtaposition of that touch: your callused fingers sliding over baby-soft skin.

“Promise me,” you say, and you’re not even fighting to stop how your voice is shaking, “you’ll sing with me again.”

He smiles at that, and it’s like the sun, and the thought strikes you: _the sun will stop burning when you’re gone._

 _“_ What song, though?” he asks softly.

You look at him, at this beautiful, divine human who holds your soul in the palm of his hand, and think:

_We can make this into something will last forever._

You remember that line from your favourite song of his; you smile back, and answer:  

“ _Crush_.”


	19. drowning in you

Safe inside the quiet sanctuary of the tour bus, Archie finally breathes.

(He finally acknowledges that he _can’t_  breathe.)

The walls are closing in, pressing on his lungs, his chest, and he curls his fingers over his heart, crumpling his shirt tightly, wishing he can just make it all _stop_.

The sensation is unwelcome, and yet… not unfamiliar.

He doesn’t know how he makes it to the bunk bed he shares with Cook, tucked safely at the back of the bus, but he congratulates himself on getting there with steady feet.  He clutches at the railing and looks up at the top bunk, which is his, and pauses.

He suddenly doesn’t want to be up there, alone.

His gaze flits to the bottom bunk, which is _Cook’s_.  He bites his lip as he feels his chest constrict tightly, and he rubs at the phantom pain, squeezing his eyes shut.

Surely it’s okay?  Just… just this once?  After all, no one is around to see… right?

His body dictates his decision ahead of his brain and he finds himself crawling into Cook’s space, pulling Cook’s blanket over himself and curling his body near the wall.  He tucks his face into Cook’s pillow and _inhales_ ; his senses are overpowered by Cook’s familiar scent, filling his lungs, and he simply keeps breathing—deep, heavy intakes of breath that make him feel less like he’s drowning and more like he’s going to _survive_  this.

He feels the pain in his chest eventually ease as the ghost of Cook’s presence washes over him, and in his mind he can picture Cook’s easy smile, his warm laughter, the comfort of his touch when he pulls Archie close and keeps him anchored near, safe in the harbour of his friendship.

Archie squeezes his eyes shut as guilt settles in his bones immediately after.

It frightens him terribly.  How much he’s come to rely on Cook like this, how much he’s come to _need_  Cook as badly as he needs air to _breathe_ —and what frightens him even more is _having Cook find out_.

It’s bad enough that he’s still such a kid in Cook’s eyes.  Bad enough that he’s someone whom Cook feels like he constantly needs to protect, to watch over, as if Archie can’t be trusted to take care of himself—never mind that it’s _true_.  Bad enough that he’s already so _weak_  in Cook’s eyes.  Cook doesn’t need to see the depth of it.  The reality of it.

Because when Archie gets like this—when these damn panic attacks rear their ugly head and awaken the monsters in his mind, clawing at his thoughts and sneering at his insecurities—Cook doesn’t need to see just how _broken_  Archie is.

The beast was particularly bad, tonight.  It’s been an exhausting week, with all the travel, the rehearsals, and the shows themselves—and on top of all that, Archie has been bombarded with calls lately from his label, asking for his opinion on songs they want him to sing, and then not listening to him when he says he _doesn’t_  want to sing them—why do they even bother _asking_  him then?  His father’s been calling too, asking about his mission—which he isn’t even sure yet if he _wants_  to do—and reminding him not to get caught up in the rock star lifestyle, whatever _that_  means, and doesn’t his father trust him _enough_  to know what is and isn’t _bad_  for himself?  And then there are all these media people asking him why he’s still _single_ , as if indirectly asking him what’s _wrong_  with him, as if Archie hasn’t been asking himself that question enough _all the time_ , and it’s just— _it’s all too much_.

And Archie hates himself for it.  Hates himself for being such a spoiled, selfish brat, because he knows he should be grateful.  He’s living his dream, being granted this opportunity that most people can only wish about and never have it come true in their entire lifetime, and he’s surrounded by such talented people, such great _friends_ , and he’s able to sing for so many people and let his voice be _heard_ , and he’s never felt happier in his life.

He’s also never felt so _scared_.  He’s thrust into a whole new world, way out of his comfort zone—everything’s so unfamiliar and overwhelming, and the uncertainty of it all frightens him, sears him to the bone, and he’s scared, he’s _so_ scared—

He feels a sob rising to the back of his throat, and he angrily swallows it down as he tightens his hold on Cook’s blanket.

He’s so scared of facing it all _alone_.

Unbidden, his mind flashes to the night of the finale, when it was just the two of them on that stage, with Cook holding him close and looking at him like—like Archie’s _special_ —before Ryan made the announcement that declared Cook as the winner, and Archie was so _happy_  for him, and then he had to step back to allow Cook his moment and—

And that’s when he felt it.  That initial stab of fear, burying itself deep into his _heart_ , festering there.  And it has returned with a vengeance now, as they’re nearing the end of the tour, because—

He bites his lip harder this time, enough to draw blood, because he can’t cry about this, because he’s being so gosh darn _pathetic_  that he can’t deny himself the truth.

Because he doesn’t want to be separated from Cook, _ever_ , and just the thought of it—that’s what’s been making it hard for him to _breathe_.

And it frightens him _so badly_ , because he realises he has to protect Cook from _himself_.  Because Cook is his friend, his _best_  friend, if he’s being honest to himself, and he can’t let himself dare hope to be anything more to Cook because—because imagining Cook with someone _else_  is probably going to kill him at some point, so he vehemently shuts out the part of his brain that keeps insisting on reminding him of that _very possible scenario_ —

The point is, Cook is his _friend_ , and Archie’s not selfish enough to _ruin_  him.  Losing Cook’s friendship _because_  Archie needs him too much is the cruellest irony of all, and Archie will never, _ever_  risk that.  Archie will never allow himself to be the reason Cook will be _destroyed_ , not when he’s come to matter so much to Archie.  Not when Archie _loves_ —

His thoughts come screeching to a halt when he hears the familiar slide of the bus door opening.  His fingers press against his mouth to stifle his surprised gasp—the driver has promised to let him have the place for himself tonight, while the others are out celebrating.  He slinks back into the shadows and presses his body close to the wall, praying that whoever it is won’t see him.

When he hears who it is, however, his heart leaps to his throat in simultaneous joy and fear.

“Archie?” Cook’s familiar, beloved voice calls out softly.  “Are you in here?”

The monsters in his mind begin growling all at once.   _Don’t let him see you.  Don’t let him see how weak you are, how much you need him, because you’ll **ruin**  him, and you’ll drive him away, you’ll lose him, because he’ll finally see you’re **not worth it**_.

… _But I need him_.  The softest, most vulnerable voice inside of him is crying out for Cook’s presence, and Archie feels the familiar prickling at the back of his eyes, the lump forming at his throat.

… _I love him_.

“I’m here, Cook.”

He sees the way Cook freezes and whirls around.  Taking a deep breath, Archie runs his hands over his face to wipe away the tears that have escaped despite his best efforts, because for Cook—for Cook, he can be strong.

And he will always, _always_  smile for him.

He crawls out of the shadows and into the soft, muted light where Cook can finally see him, and offers him that smile.

“… I’m here.”


	20. su nombre, mi oración

Archie dims the lamplight and turns over to snuggle against his favourite source of warmth, ready to turn in — only to find him still scrolling on his phone and frowning at it. 

He nudges at Cook’s chin playfully with the top of his head as he leans on Cook’s shoulder to peer at the phone.  “What are you looking at?” he asks, and is surprised to find his own Twitter profile on the screen.

Cook sighs. “I’m kind of jealous at how you get to call your friends ‘yours,’ you know.”  He arches an eyebrow.  “Like ‘your boy, Kevin’.”

Archie bites back an amused smile — there’s no heat in Cook’s words, and his eyes are twinkling in mirth, so he can tell that Cook’s only teasing.  Besides, Archie knows fully well how Cook adores Kevin too, given that Kevin is probably one of the very few, very special people in the world who knows about… well, _this_.

Archie swings his leg over Cook’s hip as he moves to straddle him, and he can tell by the pleased smile that _this_ is what Cook’s aiming for: the man is craving for Archie’s affection, and is going at a roundabout way of _asking_ for it.

“Kevin has Alyssa you know,” Archie murmurs as he lets the back of his hand caress Cook’s cheek, lingering.  “And he’s so head over heels for her, it’s ridiculous.”

Cook sighs in mock-resignation, the corners of his mouth twitching at the effort not to smile. “What about me though?” he asks as he purses his lips.  “Are you head over heels for _me_?”

Archie’s shoulders shake with silent laughter as he leans down to press a quick, chaste kiss on that pouty mouth.  “ _Mi hombre hermoso,_ ” he murmurs.  “That’s what you are to me.”

He feels the minute shiver of Cook’s body beneath him, and he smiles as he knows how Cook has a very special weakness for _this_ , when Archie shifts to his native language to express more intimate terms of endearment.

He raises himself up to kiss the top of Cook’s head, pressing his mouth at that crown of beautifully greying hair. “ _Mi rey,”_ he murmurs as he strokes up Cook’s arm, telling him he is always more than willing to be on his knees for him.  He moves to Cook’s forehead.  “ _Mi sol,_ ” he mouths, his fingers tightening their grip on Cook’s shirt, silently begging him to never leave, because his world is always dark without him.

He moves lower to press a kiss on each of Cook’s eyelids, smiling at how the sensation of eyelashes brushing against his lips is both ticklish and arousing.  “ _Mi cielo,”_ he sighs, loving the way Cook looks at him, because every time that gaze pierces him, it feels like the sky is near and heaven is right here, by Cook’s side, and that he doesn’t need any other paradise other than this.  

He slides himself lower this time, and moves to mouth at Cook’s throat, gently nibbling.  “ _Mi vida,”_ he whispers, fingers stroking along Cook’s neck, loving how they always come to life together through their music, loving how that raw, passionate voice never fails to set his heart racing.  

His hands move to rake lightly over Cook’s nipples as he mouths at his chest through the thin material of his shirt.  “ _Mi tesoro,”_ he murmurs, promising that of everything Cook has willingly given him, it is this, his heart, that Archie will treasure the most.  

He leans back and watches as Cook’s eyes flutter open, his pupils dilated and drunk at the sight of Archie gazing at him with half-lidded eyes.  Archie cups his jaw with both hands tenderly, lovingly.  “ _Mi querido,”_ he says softly before he kisses him.

“ _Tu me vuelves loca,_ ” he whispers against Cook’s mouth as he pulls back, beginning to tremble with the true weight of everything he’s saying.   _“Te adoro_ ,” he says as he goes back in for another, deeper kiss, hungry for more.   _“Te quiero,_ ” he whimpers as he sinks his teeth on Cook’s full, bottom lip.  “ _Te necesito,_ ” he breathes as he finally delves his tongue inside of Cook’s mouth, moaning when Cook sucks on it, hard.

He finds their positions suddenly reversed when Cook swiftly turns them both over.  They both pause to catch their breath as they gaze at each other; Cook is heaving heavily above him, both of his arms caging Archie in.

Archie swallows as he reaches for him.  “ _Hazme el amor_ ,” he asks softly, shyly, his toes curling at how he still feels like he’s unworthy of asking for this, even after all this time.

Cook leans down, and when Archie tilts his face up to kiss him, he feels his blood spike when Cook unexpectedly growls back: “ _Quiero hacerte el amor.”_

With wide eyes, Archie gazes up in surprise as Cook holds him in place, declaring in perfect Spanish:

“ _Quiero que seas mío.”_  


	21. things you said

**things you said at 1 am**

_‘If I told you I love you, would you believe me?’_

Cook stares at the message he just sent, wondering if he can get away with the excuse that he’s been drunk-texting, when he has in fact never been more sober in his life, never had an epiphany as clear as this.

He stares at his phone for a little longer before he falls back to the bed with a sigh.

He bolts up again when the phone chimes in his hand, finally signalling Archie’s reply.  He reads the message just as he hears his hotel room’s doorbell ring.

_‘If I told you I love you too, would you open the door?’_

* * *

**things you said through your teeth**

“If you don’t stop right now,” Cook hisses through gritted teeth, “I am going to end up breaking your rule of no PDA and no exhibitionist sex.”

Archie flushes hotly even as he smirks, unhooking his foot from around Cook’s ankle and removing his hand from Cook’s knee under the restaurant table.

* * *

**things you said too quietly**

His feet are seemingly glued to the floor; frozen, he watches Archie wheeling his luggage behind him as he passes through the immigration counter that will take him to Chile.

“Don’t go,” Cook whispers.

* * *

**things you said over the phone**

He answers on the first ring.  “Hey Arch, what’s up?”

“Hi, Cook!  Um, where are you?”

“I’m in Dallas right now.  What about you?”

“… I’m in LA?”

A heavy, weighted pause; a bright, blooming hope.  “For the finale?”

“Yes.”

“What—” He swallows and tries again: “What are you gonna do?”

He swears he can _hear_ Archie smile.

“… Wait for you.”

* * *

**things you didn’t say at all**

He returns from the rehearsal with the other Idol winners to find Archie in the middle of the catering line… looking completely lost.

Cook takes one look at him—the tense set of his shoulders, the way he’s worrying his lower lip out of nervousness, the way he’s fidgeting uncomfortably with the hem of his shirt—and inwardly curses at himself.

Archie very nearly jumps when Cook gently lays a hand on his lower back; he whirls around and, when Archie sees who it is, very nearly melts into Cook’s arms right then and there.

Cook would’ve gathered Archie close and held him tight, damn the consequences; he wouldn’t care at all about what everyone else would think.  But Archie _would_ , and Cook intends to alleviate his anxiety, not add to it.

So instead, he claps a hand on Archie’s shoulder and squeezes—partly in reassurance, partly in apology—and the smile he receives in return is filled with heartfelt gratitude.

There is so much more that Cook wants to do—to protect Archie from everything closing in on him, to calm the storms raging in his mind—but for now, with so many eyes watching them, this has to be enough.

 _Later_ , Cook vows to himself, frowning at the bruises under Archie’s eyes.

_Let me be your sanctuary, later._

* * *

**things you said under the stars and in the grass**

“That’s Orion the Hunter,” Archie murmurs as he snuggles close; Cook readily lets him pillow his head on his arm as he shifts to make room for him on their blanket.  “When I was in Chile, Orion was positioned there during this time of the night.”  He points to a different part of the sky.

Cook smiles as he presses a kiss to the crown of Archie’s head; he wants to pay attention, he really does, but he finds that the beauty of the heavens pale significantly to that of the boy beside him.  “Did you think of me when you looked at the stars?”

“Of course,” Archie answers softly as he curves his entire body around Cook’s.  “I… took comfort in that thought.”

Cook catches the hand that was gripping his shirt tightly and gently loosens it with his own fingers.  He raises Archie’s hand to his lips to caress it.  “What thought?”

“That at least,” Archie whispers, tucking his face into Cook’s neck, and Cook can feel him breathing him in: “We were still under the same sky.”

* * *

**things you said while we were driving**

“Do you think,” Archie murmurs, “there will ever come a time when we don’t have to run away and hide like this?”

Cook glances at him; he’s watching the trees along the road, staring out of the window unseeingly as they drive by — far, far away from the glittering cameras of Hollywood and the looming presence of the LDS Church.

Keeping one hand on the steering wheel, Cook reaches over the passenger seat to clasp Archie’s hand in his.

“I have faith that it will.”

Archie stares at him, surprised both at the gesture and at the choice of words; Cook doesn’t look back because he has to keep his eyes on the road, but he feels more than sees the gratitude and fragile hope in Archie’s smile as the grasp of the fingers in his hand tightens.

* * *

**things you said when you were crying**

Cook pauses as he enters the dressing room—he has just come back from his own performance, and any minute now the PA is going to come in to call for Archie’s turn on the Idol stage—and he stares at the seventeen year old kid hunched over in his seat before the dressing mirror, hands tightened into fists on his knees.

From where he’s standing, he can clearly see the way those hands are shaking.

“I don’t think I can do this anymore,” Archie says quietly.

It feels like the breath is knocked out of him, like his lungs are being squeezed too tightly, as Cook is once again overcome by the overwhelming need to protect this kid.  It’s not because David Archuleta is too _young_ for this, because Archie is so much of an old soul that Cook thinks he might have been born in the wrong century.

No, it was never because Archie’s young, Cook thinks grimly.  It’s because Archie is too _good_ for the ruthlessness of this industry.

Slowly, giving Archie time to tell him to leave if he wants to be alone, Cook moves forward and kneels in front of the kid.  Gently, he places a hand over Archie’s, and tries not to let his surprise and panic show when Archie’s tears fall on their joint hands.

“Why do you do this, Arch?” Cook murmurs as his thumb soothingly caresses Archie’s knuckles.  “Why do you sing?”

Archie looks up at him, finally; their faces are level with each other at this angle, and even though those hazel eyes are glistening with tears, Cook’s breath is abruptly taken from him in an entirely different way now.

… Even when he cries, Archie is still so _beautiful_.

“Because I know no other way to live than this,” Archie whispers.

Cook feels his throat tighten at the sincerity and depth of that answer.  “Then hold on to that, Arch.  Even when things get difficult— _especially_ when things get difficult—hold on to your faith in music.”

Something in Archie’s gaze breaks at that.  “And what if I can’t, anymore?”

Cook takes a deep breath, knowing that Archie won’t ever know the true weight of what he’s going to say next—hell, Cook himself doesn’t understand what this means, yet.

He clasps both of Archie’s hands in his.

“Then hold on… to _this_.”


	22. itaidōshin

> [pic.twitter.com/CfQ3WWXfUn](https://t.co/CfQ3WWXfUn)
> 
> — Words (@Iovelywords) 
> 
> [November 21, 2016](https://twitter.com/Iovelywords/status/800575230792056832)   
> 

It’s in the way they reach for the music sheet as one that makes them pause and look at each other as if for the first time.  


In the end, it is nothing grand that has made them realise.  It’s something as simple as this.

They look at each other, hands hovering in midair, fingertips grazing the same edge of the paper.  Archie is perched on the seat by the keyboard, and Cook is standing nearby with his guitar—both of them having mutually decided to practice the piece Idol is going to make them perform in a few days—and they have both reached out at the same time, about to turn the same page to see the rest of the notes and chords on the next.

They look at each other, and like notes played in unison as a chord, something clicks.

It’s like looking into a mirror, they both realise, having the same coloured eyes  — only not, as the tinges of blue (on Cook’s) and green (on Archie’s) make them distinct and unique from each other.  And when, they both think in surprise, have they begun to look at each other so closely?

It’s in the way it’s so easy for them to play together, they both realise.  The way their hands automatically adjust to the other’s tempo as they play, always managing to find to right notes to hit as the the music of the other guides them.  It’s in the way their voices fit—not even like a puzzle, with distinct separate pieces—but like coffee and cream, blending together smoothly until their voices become one inseparable whole.

It’s in the way Cook wordlessly knows how to make hot chocolate for Archie when they wake up for breakfast, because he knows Archie doesn’t drink coffee, and in the way Archie gently pushes the cup he brewed for Cook with a smile until Cook groggily blinks the sleep out of his eyes, because he knows how Cook definitely isn’t a morning person.  It’s in the way they have mutely agreed to start their day—everyday—like this, with breakfast and music and each other.

It’s in the way they naturally seem to be drawn together like this in their own little world apart from all the others, silently acknowledging that there’s something about each other’s company that they want to keep exclusively for themselves, but not yet quite understanding why. 

It’s in the way they can make each other laugh—Cook with his horrible jokes and Archie with his dry wit—that sounds like music all on its own, and the way hearing the sound of each other’s happiness and seeing the joy light up in each other’s eyes has become an unspoken goal that they want to spark in each other.

They look into each other’s eyes—and they both realise there’s now a different sort of spark altogether.

Their hands are still hovering in midair.  They aren’t sure who moved first.  Maybe, like in everything else, they moved together.

Their fingers curl around each other as they turn the page together.  The spark turns into an ignition as the skin to skin contact sends electricity up their arms and down their spines.

They both pretend not to notice the tremors as they both shudder from it.

Something is changing, they both silently realise, and that a page of their lives is being turned at this very moment.  It’s simultaneously exhilarating and absolutely terrifying. They have no idea what’s on the other side—just like they have yet to study the next part of this piece, still not knowing the notes and chords that comprise the music.  


Cook feels his neck warm just as Archie feels his cheeks heat, but neither say anything even as they both notice everything.  

Whatever is going to happen... they know they both don’t have to rush into it.  

Because, like in everything else, they can learn what’s on the other side of this page of their lives: together.


	23. charmolypi

> [pic.twitter.com/3jwHtBGpCf](https://t.co/3jwHtBGpCf)
> 
> — Words (@Iovelywords) 
> 
> [November 22, 2016](https://twitter.com/Iovelywords/status/800937615163854848)   
> 

There are new wrinkles on Cook’s face, Archie observes.

Perhaps it shouldn’t come as a surprise, because it’s a natural phenomenon as someone ages.  But what makes his heart twist is that he hadn’t been here to witness them form.

He runs his fingers, butterfly light, down Cook’s face.  There are new lines around his eyes and around his mouth, and Archie aches at the reasons for them, because he hadn’t been here to know what they were: what made Cook laugh all those years to develop that crow’s feet, why the lines around his mouth indicate how often his smile disappeared.  

Archie feels the vice around his heart clamp even tighter.  He knows that he had been a major part of the latter, rather than the former.

The rain continues to pour outside, a gentle pattering against the roof and the windows that shield them from the outside world.  He shifts closer beneath the sheets, careful not to wake Cook, and gently splays his fingers across Cook’s jaw, the soft brush of stubble—so long since he last felt it—ticklish beneath his fingertips.

 _I’m sorry_ , he tells Cook silently in his mind as he presses their foreheads together.   _I’m sorry that I wasn’t here.  I’m sorry that I hadn’t been there for you.  I’m sorry that I made you wait._

_I’m sorry that I hurt you._

He feels the familiar tightening in his throat as his vision begins to blur.  He swallows back the lump and he squeezes his eyes shut as his thumb caresses Cook’s cheekbone.

_I’m sorry I made you cry.  I’m sorry I wasn’t there to wipe your tears, or to make you smile again, or to prevent the tears from falling in the first place.  I’m sorry that I had to do this, because I needed to be better, for myself and for you and for us, and I’m sorry that the sacrifice caused you so much pain.  I’m sorry you couldn’t be part of my journey, even though I wanted you to be, because there were days when I wanted to just hop on the next flight straight to where you were, because it was so hard without you there.  I’m sorry because I couldn’t ask that of you, because you had your own life to live and I didn’t want to be selfish. I’m sorry things had to be this way, because while I can guarantee that there is no one in the world who loves you **more** , I wish so much that I can love you **better**._

His eyes flutter open, and his hand migrates to the edge of Cook’s mouth.

 _I love you_.  His fingers tremble as he traces the outline of Cook’s lips.  _I love you so much._  His heart gives one final painful heave, and he draws in a sharp, shuddering inhale as the tears finally burst forth.   _And I’m so, so sorry that I’m such a difficult person to love._  

There are familiar, callused fingers touching the corners of his eyes, and he opens them in surprise, not even realising they’ve once again fallen close.

Cook is finally awake, looking at him with a reflective gaze that Archie can’t quite comprehend.  He holds his breath as Cook brushes the wetness from his cheeks with the back of his knuckles, and he sees Cook’s gaze soften.

“Do you know,” Cook says with a voice that’s gentle and hoarse from sleep, “with eyelashes as thick and full as yours, they look like leaves with morning dew when you cry like that.”  


Archie bites his lip, Cook disappearing from his vision as fresh tears well up, and before Cook can wipe them away he surges forward to bury his face in Cook’s neck.

 _I’m sorry_ , he whispers over and over, his lips forming the words over Cook’s throat.   _I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry_.

Cook says nothing, but Archie feels Cook’s arms come up to wind themselves around him and and pull him closer.  He curls his hands against Cook’s chest as he feels Cook rest his chin atop his head, cocooning him completely in his embrace as he rides out the storm.

Outside, the rain continues to fall.  And Archie knows... Cook hasn’t forgiven him.  Not just yet.

The heartbeat beneath his hands is strong, steady, and sure.  Cook’s forgiveness is something he doesn’t have, not just yet.  And Archie knows it will be quite some time before he’ll deserve it.

But Archie also knows... he knows without a shadow of doubt...   


(He feels the tender kiss bestowed upon his hair, and he tightens his hold on Cook’s heart.)

That no matter what happens, no matter what distance comes between them... he will always, always have Cook’s love.


	24. mamihlapinatapei

> [pic.twitter.com/GahIiMaeTr](https://t.co/GahIiMaeTr)
> 
> — Words (@Iovelywords) 
> 
> [November 22, 2016](https://twitter.com/Iovelywords/status/800878754872573952)   
> 

It’s not the sort of life-changing epiphany that one would want inside a tour bus in the middle of the road, mostly because there’s really no way to escape and have a reprieve from the magnitude of the impact.

Especially when the source is coming at you at this very moment.

Archie smiles at him, still shy even after all this time, and Cook can’t help the answering tug at his own mouth.  It’s automatic, whenever he’s within Archie’s presence.

Which is... all the time.  And therein lies the problem.

Archie’s gaze flickers hesitantly at the couch, and Cook finds himself automatically scooting over to make room for him.  And therein lies the problem again, as he watches Archie’s face brighten as he happily settles himself next to Cook, and Cook finds his insides doing a happy little somersault too as Archie slices the sandwich he’s holding into two and shyly offers the other half to Cook.

Cook’s pretty sure Archie can hear his heart hammering against his ribs because of how loud it sounds in his own ears, but as they both silently bite into their respective halves of the sandwich Archie has prepared as a midnight snack (seriously, the boy might be petite but he has the stomach of a cow), Archie doesn’t seem to be suffering from the sort of mind-blowing realisation that Cook has been trying very hard not to panic about.

Because he and Archie?  They’re practically _married._

They’re together all the damn time now—not just during the shows and the rehearsals and the fan meets—but even in little domestic things such as eating together or taking a walk together during their breaks.  In fact, Cook thinks hysterically, the only thing left for him to do now is to hold Archie’s hand when they do.  After all, it’s like they’re always going out for a _date._

Except they don’t end with a kiss, and there— _that_ is precisely the problem.

Archie glances at him now from the corner of his eye as he munches on his sandwich thoughtfully, and through his own mouthful Cook tries to offer a reassuring smile that he thinks isn’t too convincing.  


They’re together practically twenty hours a day, glued to each other’s side as they navigate this strange new life on the road.  They’ve been at this for several weeks now, and while usually such close quarters all the time can drive anyone nuts, it’s driving Cook crazy for an entirely different reason.

Because those four hours apart when they finally separate to retire to each of their own beds?  

Cook wants them too.

He doesn’t want to spend those four hours watching the ceiling of his bunk and listening to Archie breathe from above, knowing when he turns over in his sleep from the rustling of his sheets and the creaking of the mattress, and knowing what kind of dream Archie’s having from the sighs and mumbles that escape his lips.

He wants to crawl into Archie’s bed to hold him when the sounds he’s making are signalling a nightmare, wants to be there when Archie turns in his sleep so he’s the one Archie’s snuggling with instead of a damn pillow, wants to be with Archie twenty four hours of the day instead of a measly twenty, because Cook has realised the insane paradox that the closer they get, the more Cook feels the distance — and Cook doesn’t want any of that anymore.  He doesn’t even want the inches of barriers between them through the layers of their clothes whenever he pulls Archie close, because even then that’s much, much too far.  He wants to have _nothing_ between them, and he doesn’t want _any_ time apart, because he can’t get close enough to Archie — and he can’t have _enough_ of Archie _._

He’s being greedy, and he doesn’t _care._ And it’s the intensity of that greed that’s making him reel.  Because he doesn’t know if Archie feels the same.  And it eats him up, feeling this ravenous for Archie’s presence, not just even in a physical or sexual way (although it _is_ partly that, and that’s another epiphany that’s Cook’s presently compartmentalising to deal with another time because he’s already panicking enough as it is), but in a way that’s so all-encompassing that Cook’s breathless with it, like he always, _always_ wants to breathe the same _air_ as Archie, in more ways and all ways than just merely sharing a kiss.  

(He wants to be the air in Archie’s lungs, because it’s only fair, isn’t it?  Considering how Archie is now practically his very reason to _breathe.)_

“Cook?”  


His careening thoughts slam to a halt as Archie’s gentle voice breaks through, and in snapping out of his daze Cook realises that Archie has already finished his sandwich (not surprisingly, as the boy seems to inhale food faster than air).  


“Are you not hungry?” Archie timidly asks as he glances down at Cook’s meal, which he has barely touched.  “Is it, um, not good?”  


Cook swallows and shakes his head, and at Archie’s crestfallen look Cook panics as he realises he has answered the wrong question, and he nearly trips over his own tongue in his haste to correct himself.   “No Arch, I mean, uh, it’s good!  Really.  I.... I guess...”

 _(it’s you I hunger for,_ his heart screams)

“...I just don’t have an appetite at the moment.”  

"Oh.”  Archie looks very confused, and inwardly Cook chants  _please don’t ask please don’t ask please don’t ask_ before he’s finally able to somewhat breathe easier when Archie instead says, “Would you like me to put that away for you, then?”

“Sure, Arch.  Thanks.  I’ll promise I’ll eat it in the morning.”  


He watches as Archie stands up, taking Cook’s forlorn sandwich with him, and places it in a container.  Archie bends over to put it in the mini-fridge below the kitchen counter, and Cook has to force himself to look away, because... well.  He doesn’t know how much longer he can keep up his self-imposed rule of ‘look, but don’t touch.’

This... is getting ridiculous.

“Well,” Cook says brightly, inwardly cringing at how fake his high-pitched voice sounds, “I guess it’s time for us to go to bed, huh?”  


He turns away so that Archie doesn’t have to see the look on his face.  Not when he feels his heart tighten.

Oh those four hours.  He’ll do _anything_ for those four hours.

“... Cook?”  


Something in Archie’s voice makes Cook’s freeze.  Slowly, he turns around... and finds his mouth go suddenly dry at the look on Archie’s face. 

Pure, utter longing.  Like he’s ravenous, too.

“Will you... stay with me tonight?”  



	25. mokita

 

> [pic.twitter.com/lAkdbd34ms](https://t.co/lAkdbd34ms)
> 
>  
> 
> — Words (@Iovelywords)
> 
> [November 23, 2016](https://twitter.com/Iovelywords/status/801387238030356480)   
> 

Little Amber knew it whenever his big brother would be home but be stuck to his phone the entire time.  Because even though she couldn’t hear the hushed conversations that would sometimes go on deep into the night, she’d observe with the insatiable curiosity of a child how she had never seen her big brother so happy.

Michael knew it when the bromance became a thing—he and Cook clicked, after all, because of their similar style and taste in music, and their wicked (and sometimes scandalous) sense of humor—and it’s the first time he had ever seen the barest spark of jealousy in the kid’s eyes.  He quit touching Cook so often then.

Claudia knew it when she recognised the look in her little brother’s eyes: it was the same way her boyfriend would gaze at her when he thought she wasn’t looking. 

Neal knew it when Cook began writing and singing happy songs again, because it’s about damn time the guy moved on from the last girl who broke his heart (she didn’t deserve him anyway). 

Lupe knew it when she saw how David started questioning the Church teachings about who were the only people allowed to fall in love.  She told him in no uncertain terms that he could love anyone he chose, and that no one could ever take that away from him, not even God.  Her son had never looked more grateful, and she wanted to cry for him then, knowing the difficult path that lay ahead with this choice, and promised herself that she would be there for him every step of the way.

Syesha knew it when Archie was declared safe, and only she and Cook were left, because even as she knew in her heart that both her boys loved her to bits, she wasn’t the one they truly wanted to share the finale with.

Beth knew it when she watched David sing the winning song, and it was the other David her son pulled close to share the spotlight with.  As the confetti flew all around them, she marvelled at the gesture, because she knew even then that her son already considered this Archuleta boy as family.  The only difference was... the way David was keeping the boy close was not the hold of a brother.  She knew, because that was exactly how her husband held her during their wedding night.

Ryan knew it the moment David Cook sat down in the middle of the stage next to David Archuleta.  He was surprised enough when the boy refused to take sides, but he was floored when the rocker marched over to be the Mormon’s stalwart support.  He had been doing this for so many years now, and he had witnessed enough magical moments on stage to know that this was one of them.

Adam knew it when the guilt of leaving behind his little brother was lessened by the knowledge that someone would finally take care of him.  He knew even then, without a doubt, that David Archuleta would stay.

Charice knew it when David began secretly going out with her at the types of bars she’d frequent.

Kimberly knew it during the breakup.

Benton knew it before he even got the chance to try.

Brooke knew it during her shows with Archie when she’d be bombarded with texts from Cook, asking her and Michael to make sure Benton knew not to touch what wasn’t his.  

Rachel knew it when she gently turned down the ring David offered, and told him it fit someone else better.  She was heartbroken, for she loved him deeply, but she knew she couldn’t settle for being silver.  She deserved to be someone’s gold.  And she knew... David had already found his.  

Jeff knew it when they flew to Manila, and his anxious son had a hard time masking the way he was overwhelmed by the people’s almost fanatical welcome.  The other David was the only one who could calm his son with nothing but a steady touch to his shoulder, or his quiet presence as he stood resolutely next to David James, and he knew even then that theirs was a very special bond.  The kind that goes way beyond.

Andrew knew it when his brother stopped playing music for a time, because it coincided with someone else’s absence.  For as long as he could remember, music was David’s one and only true love, and the only reason for his brother to ever give up his first love like that was if he had finally found his forever love.

Kari knew it when David surprisingly agreed to make an OPM album even though it hadn’t been part of the plan at all.  She finally understood the decision to extend their stay during the press conference, when David explained that the album was going to be a message he was going to leave behind.  She knew exactly whom those songs of a Forevermore love was for.

Monty knew it when David performed Crush, even though no one else in the band knew how to play it.  It was the first time in a span of two years that he finally saw David genuinely smile again while performing.  After all, the reason for his happiness was singing with him once more.

Ruben knew it when he took that Snapchat video, and the two were like magnets, irresistibly drawn to each other, never one without the other there.  Eight seasons later, and they were still inseparable.  

Gracie knew it when David asked if she could write this song with him.  When the lyrics started coming together, it dawned on her that they were direct answers to the lyrics of another song of almost the same title.  And she knew she had to give this song justice, because it was a promise of coming home, no matter how far.

In the end, it was almost anticlimactic when the wedding was announced.  No one was surprised anymore, because they all knew from the start that this was how it’s going to end.

This was how it’s going to begin.


	26. agastopia

> [pic.twitter.com/wR757eJgKl](https://t.co/wR757eJgKl)
> 
> — Words (@Iovelywords) 
> 
> [November 24, 2016](https://twitter.com/Iovelywords/status/801908011434409984)   
> 

The last thing David remembers before closing his eyes is rushing into the darkened area of the studio to escape the... heat.  And it’s not because of the glaring sun or because the other room is hot or dry or humid, but because Cook is _there_ , and—

And there had been heat of a different kind emanating between them as soon as their gazes had locked, and David had been so dizzy with it that his first instinct was to _escape_.

David presses his burning forehead to the wall’s cool surface, hoping it’ll somehow abate his feverish skin.  It’s not because he doesn’t trust Cook.  In fact, if Cook asks, he'll do absolutely anything for him.  Anything at all.  And that, David thinks as fire blooms across his cheeks and his fingernails rake the wall in a desperate attempt to distract himself, is precisely what he’s running away from.  Because the ache has been building up so fiercely inside him, and he doesn’t know how much longer he can hold back instead of voicing these desires out loud; he wants Cook to take control, to command him, to be at Cook’s absolute mercy, to give himself over completely and be used for Cook’s whole pleasure and his alone, especially through the strength of those—

David punches the wall lightly.  He can feel himself going crazy with this, and it’s probably for the best that he escaped Cook’s scrutiny just in time.  Cook had just finished his recording session with the band and was looking to relax, so he had taken off his jacket and rolled up the sleeves of his shirt—and David’s mouth had gone suddenly dry as he felt the familiar flush rising up his neck and the knots coiling themselves in his gut, his throat working to swallow back the whimpers that threatened to burst forth from his mouth, and before he was even aware of what he was doing, he had wiped his suddenly cold, sweaty palms on his jeans and had put on a bright smile as he made up some lame excuse to step out of the room. 

He can still feel the way Cook’s gaze burned onto his back as he left. 

It doesn’t make sense _,_ how it’s _this_ particular part of Cook’s body that’s making him borderline insane.  Because granted, the entire package is already sexy enough, but those _arms._   David’s knees go _weak_ at the thought of them, let alone the _sight_ of them.  And when Cook winds those arms around him—

David lets out a long, shuddering exhale.  The things he wants to tell Cook when he holds him are as tender as they heated.  As much as he entertains the thought of the strength of those arms ripping his clothes apart, pinning him to the nearest available hard surface as he begs Cook to, well, _ravish_ him... those passionate thoughts don’t filter his mind as often as the painfully yearning fantasy of Cook simply _holding_ him as more than just a friend—holding him as if he’s someone Cook wants to have close for the rest of his life as more than just a brotherly figure.

Like David’s the missing piece Cook’s been searching for all his life, in the same way David has found his in Cook’s arms.  

David takes a deep breath and straightens.  Composing himself, he opens his eyes—

—and finds the very source of his sweet torture caging him in.

“Please don’t run away again,” Cook murmurs from behind, his rough, husky baritone made softer by an undercurrent of emotion that David can’t pinpoint.  At the moment, he is too busy holding his breath, staring at the way Cook’s arms are stretched on either side of him, tattoos in stark view from Cook’s rolled up sleeves, both palms pressing firmly against the wall, twin barriers preventing David from escaping— _again_.  


“What if I need to?” David whispers, trying not to let the panic bubble up his chest when he sees those rigid arms bend as Cook steps closer.  There are mere centimetres separating their bodies now, and David feels the heat of the minuscule space between them like a brand.

“Don’t you trust me?” Cook asks softly, and David hears the layers now—hurt and worry and painful vulnerability—and at Cook’s sharp intake of breath when David shakes his head, David quickly clarifies in a small voice, blushing all the way to the roots of his hair at the shy admission: 

“... I trust you too much.”  


There is a long, weighted pause as Cook seems to process that statement, and everything unsaid that is contained within.  The air is thick with it, and David can’t _breathe_.

“Good,” Cook says suddenly, and there is a hint of something darker there, raw and satisfied and strangely possessive, igniting David’s blood and making his pulse quicken.  “I thought I was the only one.”  


Confused by that statement, and hardly daring himself to hope, David’s swirling thoughts are further scattered at the unexpected touch of guitar-callused fingertips to the sensitive skin of his nape.  He feels the air being stolen out of his lungs as those fingers travel lower, slow and feather light, barely grazing the fabric of his clothes, almost ticklish in the barest suggestion of touch.

It takes him awhile to realise that Cook’s fingers are following a deliberate path as they stroke down his spine, and unbidden tears suddenly well up in David’s eyes as he wants to cry at how _good_ it feels being touched like this, intimate and full of loaded intent, and at how it’s insanely _frustrating,_ the lingering caress a slow match that sparks across David’s back, sending electricity careening through his nerves and making all the blood in his body rush southward, leaving him light-headed and lust-drunk.

 _More_ , he wants to beg, biting back the cry with a whimper.   _More._

“Do you know,” Cook says hoarsely, and dimly David notes that his voice has dropped several octaves lower, making David’s groin coil tighter, “what I’ve always wanted to do to you?”

David’s brain seems to have stopped working along with his throat as he merely shakes his head again, refusing to believe that this isn’t his overwrought imagination making his fantasies deceptively come into play, because is Cook really voicing out the impossible? Does he really... desire David too...?

“I want to suck bruises down your spine.”  David can feel the tremors of Cook’s body as his voice shakes along with it, guttural and desperate.  “A spinal constellation of tiny blood roses from your scalp, all the way down to... _here_.”  


David gasps, barely swallowing back a needy moan as Cook’s fingers reach their final destination and press hard across David’s sacrum, nails digging roughly through cloth and skin, and against David’s will he feels himself buckling and falling forward as his hips arch _back_ toward Cook, every line of his body language silently pleading for _more._

He hears Cook choke back a groan of his own, and like a bolt of electric shock, David finally realises that all those times he felt Cook watching his back... he isn’t the only one with a certain, specific fixation.

And _this..._ just happens to be Cook’s favourite part of David’s anatomy.

Those strong arms catch him before he falls, one circling his neck and shoulders while the other winds around his stomach, pulling him flush against the long line of Cook’s body, and David’s mouth falls open as his head lolls helplessly back against Cook’s shoulder, unable to deny the evidence of Cook’s desire pressing hard against the small of his back.

“Will you let me?” Cook whispers, breath hot as it fans over the shell of his ear, and as Cook’s hand skitters helplessly downward, David boldly twines his fingers through Cook’s and guides it to where he needs them most.  


They both moan in unison when David bucks into Cook’s hand, telling him _exactly_ what he wants—and exactly what his body _needs._

“ _Yes.”_  



	27. hold on

The door closes with a soft click and the card is slid into the power slot.  The room is illuminated, and Archie lets out a sigh of utter relief at the sight of the freshly made twin single beds.

He hasn’t looked forward to hotel night this much in so long.  He feels so _tired_ in so many ways, with a kind of weariness that the weeks of nonstop touring have settled in his bones.  

He trudges over to the bed near the bathroom and settles himself on it.  He looks across the other empty bed, the one near the window, and feels his heart twist.

Cook hasn’t come back yet, it seems.  He bid Archie a distracted goodnight earlier, telling him not to wait for him because he’s going for a night out with Michael and Jason.  Archie tried not to read too much into the way Cook was studiously avoiding his eyes, or the almost offhand way he waved Archie off to their room, or even the distant, tight-lipped smile Cook threw his way before he walked away with the boys—

But Archie can’t help it.  He can’t shake off the feeling that Cook’s _avoiding_ him somehow.

He kicks at the carpet morosely.  He’s been wracking his mind for days now, and he can’t figure out when exactly it happened, just that the weirdness started sometime last week.  It’s a little frustrating, but mostly… he just feels really, really sad.  And strangely empty.

He misses Cook.  He misses the closeness that has been steadily growing between them, the easy banter and the carefree laughter, even the hushed talks they always have at the tour bus before they retire, when Archie gradually grew to trust Cook with some of his most carefully guarded thoughts—about his family, his religion, even the industry.  It almost feels like Cook has been steadily becoming his best friend somehow, the one Archie can tell all of his secrets to, and Archie has never felt so happy or comfortable or _safe_  with anyone until—

Well.  Until he lost all of that, quite abruptly.  And it’s frustrating—and quite ironic—to miss someone who’s _right there._ And he can’t even figure out _why_.

Sighing, Archie leans down to take off his shoes—and sways a little as a bout of dizziness suddenly comes over him.

He blinks.  Shaking his head, he resumes untying the laces, frowning at the way his fingers are uncontrollably shaking.  Perhaps he’s more tired than he thinks.

As he moves to unpack and arrange his things in the cabinet, making sure to make space for Cook’s when he comes back, he slowly begins to realise that the heaviness he’s feeling has less to do with the emotional baggage he’s been carrying (though that has certainly added to the weight), and more to do with how he feels suddenly _weak,_ with his bones feeling like they’re about to rattle out of their sockets, and—

_Oh no._ He knows _exactly_  what these are symptoms of.

By the time he completes his nightly rituals and changes into his pyjamas, Archie feels like he’s about to _collapse_.

Shakily, he climbs onto the bed and wraps the comforter around himself, feeling his entire body begin to tremble with the strange sensation of being both hot and cold all over.

_Maybe when I finally get to sleep,_ he tells himself as exhaustion pulls at his eyes and drapes itself heavily over his body, _I’ll feel better._

 

* * *

 

He doesn’t feel better.  He feels tremendously _worse_.

His arms have been wrapped around the porcelain bowl for a while now, with his head over the toilet, as his stomach seems determined on heaving everything he’s ever ingested.  He retches powerfully once more, and he now seriously wants to cry with how absolutely _miserable_ he feels, and—

“… Archie?”

_… Oh no._

Cook is suddenly by his side, kneeling on the bathroom floor, with one hand keeping the sweaty bangs away from his face while the other rubs at his back soothingly to keep him steady as his body gives one more forceful heave.

“How long has this been going on?” Cook asks him quietly when he pauses to breathe.  Shakily, he takes the pile of tissue Cook has quickly torn from the roll and wipes at his mouth, dimly wondering why he hasn’t even heard Cook come in.

“Just… just a few minutes ago,” he rasps out hoarsely.  He had woken up to his stomach screaming bloody murder, and he only had a moment to blearily glance at the clock and note that it’s three in the morning before he rushed to the bathroom.  He’s been hugging the toilet ever since.

Keeping a hand firmly on Archie’s back, Cook quietly waits until Archie is breathing steadily again as his body finally rides out the last waves of its convulsions, before Cook pulls the cover down and flushes the toilet.

“Have you been feeling sick lately?” Cook murmurs as he pulls Archie close.

Weakly, Archie lets himself collapse into Cook’s arms.  “Yes,” he whispers into Cook’s neck, though he doesn’t mention that the feeling hadn’t only been physical.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” Cook asks, his frustration tempered by panicked concern.

_‘You weren’t around_ ,’ is the automatic answer that flashes in Archie’s thoughts.  Immediately, he berates himself guiltily for it, because it sounds too harsh even in his mind, and it seems like an unwarranted bout of selfishness; it’s not like Archie is his only friend, and Cook is allowed to have fun with other people too.  He takes a deep breath and simply gives his most honest answer: “I didn’t want to worry you.”

He feels Cook stilling against him, and he burrows himself closer as he closes his eyes, basking in Cook’s familiar warmth and scent that he both thoroughly _missed._ “… And I didn’t want you to see me like this.”

_Weak,_ Archie continues privately in his mind, feeling an overwhelming sadness wrap itself around him.   _Someone who can’t keep up with you.  Someone you’ll eventually have to leave behind._

Cook is quiet for several seconds, before Archie feels familiar callused fingers brushing his forehead.  “For the record,” Cook says slowly, making Archie shiver both at the sensation of Cook’s touch and at the vibrations of Cook’s voice that Archie feels rumbling through his body. “I don’t like seeing you like this, either.”

Confused, Archie leans back as his eyes flutter open to look at Cook—

And his breath gets stolen from his lungs at the strange mixture of pain and tenderness on Cook’s face.

He feels Cook’s fingers drift gently down his cheek.  “I don’t want to see you hurting like this.”

Biting his lip, and now feeling a little ashamed, Archie ducks his head dejectedly.  “I’m sorry,” he whispers.

He feels Cook’s arms tightening around him.  “No,” he hears Cook say quietly.  “I am.”

Archie doesn’t understand what Cook means by that, but he gets distracted when Cook murmurs in his ear: “Hold on, okay?”

He feels Cook’s arm slide under his knees, and he barely manages to wrap his arms around Cook’s neck as Cook lifts him up.

“Come on,” Cook says softly.  “Lets get you to bed.”


	28. 14

 

 

* * *

 

He looks at the digital clock blinking in the waiting area: it’s exactly 14:14 in the afternoon.  He sighs as his leg jitters restlessly — this layover is boring him to tears.

Distracted and a little frustrated, he doesn’t expect the familiar, beloved voice that calls out:

“Cook!”

His heart leaps even before his mind has even caught up to what is happening; he whirls around, and there: that wide, infectious, deeply cherished smile.

It’s the first time he sees him after the Idol Tour, and his heart soars.

“… Archie?!”

 

* * *

 

 

He sighs as he plops down on the couch.  Beside him, the kid looks at him curiously.

“What’s wrong?”

He looks at Archie, at the earnest concern easily readable on his face, and Cook can’t help but melt a little.  “I don’t know what to pick for my second Neil Diamond song,” Cook admits, offering a wry, self-conscious smile.

Archie tilts his head thoughtfully.  “What’s that?”  He motions to the paper the older man is holding.

“Oh.  This?”  Cook frowns.  “It’s a list.  They’ve given me quite a few… uh, suggestions.”

Archie leans over Cook’s shoulder to peer at the paper he’s holding, and suddenly, Cook can’t breathe. 

Archie is suddenly so _close_.

He points to a song down on the list — added almost as an afterthought.  “What about that?”

Cook looks at the fourteenth item.  “All I Really Need Is You?”

He really hasn’t intended to be looking at Archie when he says the title, nor has he intended for his voice to be all soft and raspy—but Archie looks at him at exactly the same time, and their gazes catch, and hold.

 

* * *

 

 

Cook stares at the ointment Archie is holding out.  “Uh… what’s this for, Arch?”

Archie seems to deflate as he lowers his hand, and Cook panics a little — has he said something wrong?

“It’s, um…” Archie scuffs his shoe against the floor of the tour bus as he lowers his gaze, suddenly embarrassed for some reason.  “It’s for your hands.”

Cook blinks.  “My what?”

Archie takes a deep breath, and seemingly gathering his courage, looks up at Cook and smiles a little nervously.  “It’s already the fourteenth leg of the tour, and you’ve been practicing nonstop on your guitar.  Your hands are all red because of all that playing, and I figured…”

Hesitantly, he holds out the ointment again — and Cook notices, finally, that it’s newly purchased.

“Since I know I can’t stop you from playing,” he murmurs, “I just want to make sure your hands won’t bleed.”

Something intensely bright and warm unfurls inside Cook’s chest as he stares at the young boy before him.  It’s the single most thoughtful thing anyone has ever done for him, and Cook knows… he’s lost.

“I…” Cook swallows as he reaches out with shaking fingers to take it.  “… Thank you.”

Archie smiles at him, softly this time, and Cook knows he will never forget that smile.

“… You’re welcome.”

 

 


	29. this silver leaves me longing for gold

He runs his hand over the polished wood, caresses the ebony and ivory keys tenderly, whispers “hello” to it, his most intimate friend.  He smiles softly and mutely asks it to help him speak, to help him sing, to help him understand what seems to be a language he can’t comprehend, never mind that it’s his own heart that’s speaking, and maybe music — music can be his best translator.

He positions his fingers and presses down on the first chord.  The vibrations reverberate up his arm, as if his friend is gently coaxing him: _Listen. Listen to your heart._

David Archuleta takes a deep breath, closes his eyes, and lets the poetry pour fourth from his lips as the piano accompanies him beneath his fingers. His foot presses down on the pedal with every change of chord, with every breath he has to inhale as every word seems to steal it from him.

He remembers looking out into the audience during Hollywood week, and catching hazel eyes similar to his own, shining from the intent gaze of a man whose name is identical to his own.

The song he was singing suddenly seemed to come alive with real meaning, and his voice soared with it.  He could feel it flying all the way to heaven.

From the audience, David Cook never stopped watching him.

He remembers staring in unabashed awe and wonder when it was Cook’s turn to go on stage.  From the moment Cook first opened his mouth and pressed his lips to the mic, his hands sliding up sensuously up and down the mic stand, David felt his whole body flush with sudden warmth.  The grit of Cook’s voice seem to pour into the crevices of his bones, the rawness of it making his chest ache with a longing he doesn’t understand.

He couldn’t stop thinking of Cook, after that.

He remembers delving into Cook’s background with a quiet, determined fixation that bordered on obsession, as he looked up all of Cook’s previous albums: _Matter of Time, Blindsided, The Story Thus Far, Analog Heart._ He remembers sliding on his earphones and pulling his thighs up to his chest, wrapping his arms around his calves and pressing his forehead to his knees, curling himself into a ball as he let Cook’s music wash over him.  

Every brokenhearted lyric cut through him, as if he could feel the shards of Cook’s lingering pain digging into his own heart.

He remembers his eyes filling with tears as he thought back to the song that first ensnared him, the song that refused to let him go the same way Cook’s starlight eyes and liquid voice made him a willing prisoner, and remembers fiercely vowing to himself:

_I want to be that, for you_.  He squeezed his eyes shut to contain the anger burning through his veins at all of Cook’s previous lovers, who had in their hands the most precious gift heaven could offer and instead foolishly threw it away.

David swore that he’d be different.

_I want to be the greatest fan of your life._


End file.
